Hermione Granger and the Perfectly Reasonable Explanation
by Robin.Drew
Summary: In 1991, a child came to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry with obvious gifts, but which few suspected would change the world... Oh, and Harry Potter enrolled that year as well. *** A few tweaks to canon, plus extrapolating Hermione's apparent intelligence realistically. I expect events to diverge fairly quickly. ;) *** cover image cc by-nc RooReynolds @ Flickr
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: Yes, yes, _obviously_ I didn't invent these characters, yadda yadda.

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Prologue

_October 31, 1981_

The view out the window was dark. The new moon had come a few days before, and only a sliver of white showed in the sky. There were no electric lights to be seen either - the window looked out onto a small rear yard, sheltered from streetlights and traffic by enclosing buildings and fences.

But the small room inside was warmly lit by a fire, and a pair of side-table lamps on either side of the sofa. One lamp illuminated the pages of the spy novel being read by a young brown-haired man in corduroy slacks and a beige sweater-vest. The other shone upon the non-fiction book - 'The Mismeasure of Man', as it happened - being read by a young brunette woman in a thick beige cardigan, her legs obscured by an afghan. The firelight itself danced merrily on the pages of a thinner book, pressed open on the floor by the stubby fingers of a two-year-old girl in a white nightgown. The flickers of orange and yellow made the illustrations of rabbits in waistcoats seem almost as if they might come to life at any moment, but the girl paid them little heed, her eyes instead lingering over the crisp black letters.

Though she knew the words by heart long since - she'd read the book more than once, after all - the girl often returned to it for pleasure. It had been the first book she'd read, a few months ago, and re-reading it reminded her of that first amazing thrill when she'd realized that these marks on paper - not pictures, mind you, just black marks they called 'letters' - could somehow turn into _words in her head_. It _was_ rather magical, when you thought about it.

The girl was not in costume, and no children came to the door, for the American tradition of trick-or-treating had not yet made its way across the Atlantic, and the family was not one for fancy-dress parties. Not that the girl was much given to fancy in general - her imagination was thus far firmly focused upon deciding which book she would next ask her mother to fetch down from the high shelves. Nor would children calling upon this home on later Hallowe'ens leave with much satisfaction - the man and the woman were both dentists.

At around the same time, quite some distance West, something horrible was happening (and also, if one was of a sufficiently pragmatic bent to consider it so, something miraculous). None of the residents of the house were aware of it, or even of the context in which the event was taking place. Nor would they ever have even learned of it, but for one simple fact; a few years hence, a certain quill would write the name Hermione Jean Granger - and beside it her birth date - in a certain book, in a certain room, in a certain tower, in a certain castle, the very existence of any of which both she and her parents would have been equally unlikely to suspect at all.

But then, look closely enough at anything important and you're _bound_ to find a book in there somewhere, aren't you?


	2. Chapter 1 - Statistical Sampling

Chapter 1 - Statistical Sampling

Hermione Granger was not like other girls her age. That much could be clearly illustrated - and had been - via simple bell curve charts based on surveys she'd given to her classmates. She'd asked how many books they'd read in the past year, how many books on average they read per week, and so on. In every relevant category, the dot that represented Hermione was sitting by itself off on the right side of the paper (except the graph showing school absences, where she was on the left, instead).

It was just as clearly (if more symbolically) illustrated in noting how few other girls had _administered surveys_, and that no one else at all had calculated the standard deviations. But that was something Hermione had learned early on.

At first, whenever she had a question, the path to answering it was simple - ask an adult, or find the right book. But she'd eventually discovered that there were some questions that weren't answered in books. Usually, because the question wasn't important enough that anyone else had asked it, or it was very _specific_. So she stepped back to the problem of question-answering in general, and there were a great many books about _that_. They were so interesting, in fact, that she couldn't remember what question she'd wanted to answer in the first place when she'd come up for air a week or so later.

But now she had some tools for figuring such things out, even if other people seemed to use them even _less _than they used books. Of course, these tools had their own difficulties at times. Take statistical sampling, for example. You needed a large enough pool of examples before you could be at all confident about any patterns you thought you saw. That began to become troublesome when Hermione's classmates started answering her surveys unhelpfully, or even _untruthfully_. They seemed to think it was funny (and based on the proportion of students who laughed, objectively it probably _was_ funny, even if it didn't seem like it to her).

There were questions that were hard to pin down for other reasons, though. She'd begun to notice...odd things. Coincidences, you could call them, taken individually. Sometimes when she was particularly excited to look something up, the book she wanted seemed to leap off the shelf into her hand before she'd really pulled on it at all. The time she'd been having trouble tuning out other student's chattering at school while she read, then suddenly gone deaf for half the day. The horrifying occasion when she'd accidentally _torn_ the page of a library book - or thought she had - but when she looked at it again, the page was quite unblemished.

How could you account for that, though? Unlikely things didn't happen very often taken in isolation, but collect a few million people and have them do a few dozen things every day, and they happened to everyone, _all the time_. Just because Hermione seemed to notice more pleasant coincidences than not didn't mean that formed a _real pattern_. The idea of 'luck' was just a combination of superstition and people not understanding probability.

Besides, for every minor thing she might call mildly lucky, there were other examples of misfortune. Her front teeth, for example, protruded a bit. When other children had teased her about them, she'd done her best to ignore it, but she'd also naturally looked at a few books, and it seemed like something easily fixed with orthodontia. Yet when she'd brought it up to her parents - who were dentists, after all - she got nowhere. They seemed to think orthodontists were stuck-up and unjustly full of themselves and were thus quite against employing them for any reason.

Still, the question of these coincidences remained, tucked in the back of her head along with a few other open mysteries, like what caused differences in individual preferences (specifically, why so few other students ever cared to raise their hands in class), or why it was so hard for her to make friends. Things she kept lightly in mind, just in case she happened to read some odd fact or theory that might clear everything up.

One summer afternoon in 1991, after receiving a certain Letter, she did in fact read something that _purported_ to clear everything up. However, considering it did so by suggesting that nearly a third of everything else Hermione had ever read was wrong (or at least woefully incomplete), it was rather difficult to accept at face value.

Of course, it was possible it was just a prank - she'd been on the receiving end of many over the years - though if so it had required rather more research than anyone had gone to previously. It had been addressed with peculiar specificity, down to the position of her bedroom (First Bedroom on the Left, Second Floor), which, to her knowledge, none of her classmates knew, as she'd never had occasion to invite any of them over. But it would not have been all _that _difficult to find out if someone had been properly determined.

If it _was_ a prank, however, she didn't see what the payoff would be, seeing as the letter had advised her to expect a school representative to arrive at her home in three days to 'explain the situation more fully' to her and her parents. If it had said she was to post a 10£ note 'for registration' or to go to some remote location where pranksters might show up and pelt her with toads or something similarly imaginative, that might have made more sense. But surely no prankster would be eager to face Mr. and Mrs. Granger, who were no-nonsense sort of people, and likely to give short shrift to any such shenanigans, particularly at their own home?

She'd have just asked her parents, but they were still at work, and the Letter gnawed at her, so naturally, she walked to the local library. After a couple hours of very interesting reading (primarily in the New Age and History sections), she'd decided that believing in things that didn't provide much helpful evidence was probably an effective way of practicing creativity, as the latter gave a strong showing in books on 'practical magic' while the former was seemingly absent. Nor was there any hint of the existence of any school called 'Hogwarts', past or present.

Two hours in a library might have exhausted the patience, curiosity (or likely, both) of an average eleven-year-old, but Hermione had been gifted with perseverance to match her intelligence, and she was not nearly inclined to give up yet - though unfortunately she didn't have much time before her parents were due home for dinner. Accordingly, she went to the reference desk and got the telephone numbers for every government agency she thought might be relevant to a school for magic, then walked home.


	3. Chapter 2 - A Short Visit

Chapter 2 - A Short Visit

Hermione managed to call all of the numbers she'd collected at the library before her parents got home. The Department of Education and Science was the obvious first choice, but they claimed to have never heard of a school with 'Hogwarts' in the name (Hermione, slightly embarrassed, had omitted the remainder). The Land Register had just been opened to public inspection last year, and they hadn't fully staffed up in response, but a harried clerk assured her that there was no property in the UK by that name either.

She called the Ministry of Justice on the theory that though the Witchcraft Act of 1735 had been repealed, they might still be keeping an eye out as it were, but they were "not amused" and quickly hung up. Last, she called the Office of Population Censuses and Surveys, hoping they might know how many practicing witches or wizards there were, but after being put on hold for several minutes was informed that no question had been asked about religious affiliation, and no one had reported either 'witch' or 'wizard' as an occupation - 'fortune teller' was the closest they could find, and only 89 of those as of that year's census. Her parents had come home at that point and she'd reluctantly given up for the moment, though she didn't have an immediate idea for investigating further.

After dinner, Hermione showed the Letter (she realized by now she'd been capitalising it in her head, though she honestly couldn't say why) to her parents and asked them if they knew anything about it. Despite being somewhat more certain at this point that it was an oddly creative prank, she was surprised to find herself a bit disappointed at their reaction.

"It's obviously _some_ sort of scam, though I can't imagine why they'd think anyone would believe such rubbish," opined Hermione's father.

"But they're not asking for money, it says they're sending someone around Saturday to explain," the girl pointed out.

"Ah, well it's likely these 'supplies', " he continued sagely. "Dragon hide gloves, spellbooks, a telescope...no doubt they have a preferred source, some second-hand store in the City. Whoever shows up will be a first-class hawker, mark me." Hermione's mother shook her head.

"You don't think they'd sink so low as to target _children_, would you?" she half-objected. "I'd think it quite more likely this was the work of one of Hermione's friends at school," she proposed, though she frowned a bit at the quality of the calligraphy on the envelope.

Hermione refrained from correcting her mother's standard delusion that she had friends at school. Classmates, yes. Friends, no. She just let them debate a while - if either of them offered an idea she hadn't already considered, she'd start paying attention. After excusing herself to the lounge, she resumed the book on apiology she'd been reading that morning, before any of this had started, though her thoughts kept drifting towards the Letter.

When the doorbell rang, she let her mother answer it as was their custom, though her heart skipped a beat for some reason. _Don't be ridiculous,_ she told herself, _it can't be about the Letter anyway, no one's due to come until the weekend._ But she heard her mother's over-polite 'company voice', and sure enough, she led someone into the lounge. It was a white-haired man, wearing an unremarkable suit and looking very dignified and proper, if one overlooked the impossible-to-overlook fact that he was only about three feet tall. Hermione's father trailed after, shooting disapproving glances at his wife, but maintaining an air of polite objectivity.

"Ah, and this would be your daughter, Hermione?" he asked. His voice was a high tenor - it matched his stature, and made Hermione think of a Christmas Elf.

"Er, yes," said her mother. "Hermione, this is, ah…"

"Professor Filius Flitwick," said the tiny man, his eyes twinkling merrily. Hermione tried not to stare, but how could you have a conversation without looking at someone...it'd seem like you were looking _away_, otherwise, which was really just as bad, wasn't it? Part of her noted quietly that miniature people should be a point in favor towards wizardry, but another, louder part objected that his height was entirely within the range of human variation...if at the far, far left end of the curve.

"Professor...from Hogwarts?" she asked.

"Quite correct, Miss Granger," he responded brightly.

"Now look," interjected her father, "I understand everyone needs to make a living, but I have to say that involving my daughter in this sort of thing is really beyond the pale." He shot another glance at Hermione's mother, clearly displeased the man had been invited in, but she only shrugged back at him helplessly. Professor Flitwick did not look offended - more amused, if anything.

"I assure you, the offer extended to Miss Granger is entirely genuine, and important for her own safety besides. She has already begun to use magic instinctively, and without instruction, well...things have occasionally been known to get out of hand." The wizened figure winked at Hermione, and she felt her chest get tight.

_Real. It was a pattern, it was real and he knows and…_

"To attend a school for…" her father cleared his throat, "Witchcraft and Wizardry. Really." He was using the same dry tone he used on patients who - despite showing up with four new caries - insisted that they'd brushed thoroughly after every meal and twice before bed. The little man smiled gently.

"I understand, really I do. It's surprising how well a job the Ministry does keeping everything under wraps from _non-magical humans_," he stressed this phrase, as if it taking deliberate pains to use it in place of some other term, "but I suppose they've had a few hundred years to practice by now. If you've had enough satisfaction at thinking I'm some sort of charlatan or lunatic, I could just get on with demonstrating if you'd like?" Mr. Granger was somewhat taken aback by this response, and was clearly trying to decide whether or not to be offended.

"Please," said Hermione's mother. It was clear she was trying to communicate something to her husband with her eyes, but it came off mostly looking like her contact lens had come unseated. The little man withdrew what was quite obviously a wand from some sort of wrist holster, but merely held it, and regarded Hermione for a moment.

"Miss Granger. Your parents are relatively assured that magic, as such, does not exist, and you, I suspect, are...undecided. Is that accurate?" Hermione nodded, mutely. "Very well. Given this situation, how would _you_ recommend I properly convince everyone?" The girl stared at him for a moment, then her mouth flew open as something in the core of her being realized that this was a _professor_, and he was _giving her a test_.

"Well, if I _assume_ for the moment that you _can_ do magic," she began, gaining confidence from at an approving nod from Flitwick, "you'd want to do something that we can't just explain away as a stage magician's trick. Something obviously, _blatantly_ impossible. But not _too_ impossible, or threatening, so no one gets frightened and starts off with a bad impression." The professor grinned broadly.

"Just so, Miss Granger! I'd award you House points on the spot, if not for the minor difficulties of term not having begun and you having not yet been Sorted." He pondered for a moment, then brightened. "Ah, I think I have just the thing. Now, so as not to startle anyone overmuch, though I do hate to ruin a good surprise, I'll give everyone fair warning of what's going to happen. I will twist my wand, and say a couple of words, and everything - that is to say, everything non-living - in this room will change colors. Yellow with pink spots, I think." The elder Grangers looked doubtful, but it was obvious their certainty was diminished a bit by the man's apparent confidence. "Should I be successful, can we agree for the moment to accept my words as genuine and my intentions as honorable for the remainder of the discussion? And if not, you may ask me to leave on the spot, and I shan't darken your doorstep again." Flitwick smiled serenely, waiting.

Hermione's parents glanced at each other, then nodded. Her father crossed his arms, and adopted his most serious, skeptical expression. Hermione herself merely nodded, watching so intently she'd stopped blinking.

"_Colovaria Cubiculum,_" Flitwick intoned, giving his wand a precise twist.

And in an instant, everything changed. _Everything_. The floor. The walls. The ceiling. The sofa, the chairs, the table. The fireplace, the _wood_ in the fireplace. Everyone's _clothes_. It was all yellow with pink spots. _Bright_ yellow, with _bright_ pink spots.

Hermione's parents managed not to freak out, though their hands stole together and clutched with a certain mutual urgency. Hermione felt a very brief spot of irritation, as a great many things she'd been quite certain of were unequivocally thrown into doubt or flatly contradicted. But it was dwarfed by the vistas opening up inside her, whole categories of learning she hadn't even known _existed_. The girl wasn't merely excited, as any pre-adolescent child might be excited to discover they could learn to do real magic.

Hermione Granger _hungered_.


	4. Interlude - Introductio Consectandus

A/N - Still working on pacing. This chapter came in a bit short so I decided to borrow an arrow from Wildbow's quiver and make it an interlude from McGonagall's perspective. Which reminds me, if anyone following this (hi, folks!) hasn't read Worm yet, get thee hence to parahumans dot wordpress dot com! I rather suspect you'll find far more joy there than in my own fledgling effort, at least if superpowers aren't a turn-off.

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Interlude - Introductio Consectandus

Minerva McGonagall, Transfiguration Professor and Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts, took a moment to center herself. The first meeting with the parents of a muggle-born student was always a delicate process. She had to undo decades of successful Ministry secrecy efforts, but gently enough to avoid presenting a poor impression of Wizarding society. She made some minute adjustments to the drab muggle dress she'd transfigured for the occasion, brought the family's proper names to mind to be sure she remembered them, then knocked firmly three times. After a moment, the door swung open, revealing a brown-haired woman in her early 30's.

"Ah, you must be Professor McGonagall, please do come in, we're almost ready. She's here," the woman added, calling over her shoulder back into the house, then held the door and stepped aside. The witch entered hesitantly, a bit nonplussed.

"Mrs. Emma Granger?" she verified.

"Yes, it's lovely to meet you," said the woman with a smile.

"Er, likewise, of course. I was...under the impression that your family was...that is to say, that you did not…"

"Oh, yes, we're 'muggles'," the brunette interjected, pronouncing the word carefully, with mild amusement. "That charming Professor Flitwick explained a great deal when he was kind enough to visit on Wednesday," the woman continued cheerfully. McGonagall's right eyelid twitched, and her left brow rose, as if it were a counterbalance.

"_Did_ he, now," she said, in a tone that would have set alarm bells ringing for any of her students, but which entirely escaped Mrs. Granger's notice. By all rights Minerva should have been grateful to have had the tricky part handled for her - and apparently quite well, if Mrs. Granger's attitude was any indication - but she'd spoken to Filius only yesterday and he hadn't mentioned visiting the Grangers at all. Though he _had_ been smiling a great deal, she recalled...

"Yes, _actual magic_, and our Hermione is one of the rare few who get a chance to learn...we always knew she was special, of course, but we had no idea…" She trailed off and turned as a man and a young girl came down the stairs into the foyer. Mr. Granger was equally nondescript as his wife, but the child's eyes were as bright and alive. The Professor felt them examining her a bit more thoroughly than she was accustomed to, particularly from a student, and a suspicion began to blossom. "Professor, this is my husband Daniel, and of course Hermione. This is Professor McGonagall," she said to the others, completing the introductions.

"Good afternoon," McGonagall offered warmly. "I'm pleased to meet you, though I understand you had more warning of my arrival than the official letter?" The girl looked a bit abashed.

"I'm sorry, Professor. I know the letter said that a representative would be coming to answer all of our questions, but I just needed to understand, and when the library didn't help, I called several Ministerial departments asking about Hogwarts. Professor Flitwick said he had a friend in the...Obliviator Headquarters?...who let him know about 'incidents of a certain sort'. I suppose I ought to have waited..."

At once, the situation became more clear. She'd thought such 'poaching' behavior had passed from Hogwarts with Slughorn's retirement, but clearly Filius had been keeping an eye out for potential new House members. And if she were to be completely honest with herself, Miss Granger's approach did have a rather Ravenclaw 'feel' to it.

"You could not have known, of course, Miss Granger. Your initiative was commendable, and I am sure no lasting harm was done." Certainly not, if Filius had learned via an Obliviator. "Though I trust during his visit, Professor Flitwick stressed the importance of _secrecy_ from this point forward, when it comes to muggles other than your parents?" she asked, archly. The girl nodded, and her parents echoed the gesture. All of them wore slightly differing versions of a similar expression, one that said they were eager to follow the letter of every law and had nothing but respect for authority, but were nevertheless a bit uncertain about policemen who could _erase people's memories_. Which was as it should be. And now that she'd regained her footing, so to speak, Minerva felt more comfortable taking the meeting back into hand.

"I take it then that you've decided to accept the invitation, and I shall be escorting you to Diagon Alley to obtain Miss Granger's materials?" More nods.

"Yes," said Hermione's father. "We simply couldn't see her passing up what's apparently such a rare opportunity, and of course Hermione herself is quite keen on the idea of attending. Though we did have some questions Professor Flitwick thought better addressed to someone in the administration proper - you are Deputy Headmistress, yes?" Minerva nodded, one eyebrow edging skyward again. "Well," continued Mr. Granger, wilting slightly under her stern expression, "it's just, the books on the list...they're _all_ about magic. We'd wondered about, er..._normal_ things? Mathematics, literature, science, languages? Even history here, it says 'a History of _Magic_'..." McGonagall waved a hand somewhat dismissively - this was a relatively common question from the parents of muggleborns.

"It is understood that a student should have received sufficient instruction in reading, writing, basic arithmetic, and etiquette at home - or in the 'public system', in the case of muggleborns - before enrollment at Hogwarts. Any deficiencies in those areas will be quickly addressed by individual Professors as needed in the students' first year. As for Hogwarts' _core curriculum,_ it has been providing Witches and Wizards with a sufficiently broad education to produce _generally_ productive members of society-" she had her doubts about the prospects of the Weasley twins, "as well as preparation for advanced careers, for quite a few centuries." Her tone was not defensive, but merely matter-of-fact. "That _said_, beginning in students' third year, they may add a number of elective subjects to their schedule, which do include _Arithmancy,_" she tilted her head a bit forward here and emphasized the word, as if correcting his use of the term 'mathematics', "Muggle Studies, which includes both muggle history and literature and in later years touches on muggle 'science' as well, and a number of foreign languages, both modern and ancient."

Mr. and Mrs Granger rushed to assure her they hadn't meant to impugn the quality of Hogwarts' education, and of course that all sounded fine, Hermione was always taking on extra work at school, so they were sure she'd be kept busy, etc, etc. The girl herself remained silent, though her own eyebrow rose at the mention of Arithmancy, and she seemed to grow thoughtful after listening to the description of Muggle Studies. After establishing that there were no further questions for the moment, Professor McGonagall continued.

"Well, then. If you would kindly make your way to the Leaky Cauldron, 113 Charing Cross Road in London, by whatever method you would prefer - I shall wait upon your arrival there. I ask your forgiveness for not accompanying you for the entire journey, but I make it a personal policy to avoid muggle conveyances whenever possible," she apologized, with a tiny shudder. "Oh, and do bring at least-" she withdrew a small parchment from her handbag and consulted it, "fifty 'pounds' of muggle money, which should be sufficient for Hermione's basic supplies, though you may wish to bring more for other purchases or if you wish to provide your daughter with spending money for the year. You will have to get it exchanged first thing, of course, but the shops there will not accept, ah, '_cards_', so I would advise erring on the side of excess in this matter."

"Excuse me, Professor," began Hermione, "but how will _you_ be getting there?" Minerva regarded her for a moment. The young lady had the curiosity of a Ravenclaw to be sure, but there might be courage there as well - while she was very respectful, she did not seem at all intimidated by authority. _Filius will just have to wait and see, won't he,_ Minerva thought with a small smile.

"Expeditiously," she said, and Disapparated.


	5. Chapter 3 - Needful Things

Chapter 3 - Needful Things

The trip into London was uneventful. Hermione's parents spent most of the time contrasting their brief visit with Professor McGonagall to Professor Flitwick's visit, with a lot of comments on how _normal_ Professor McGonagall had seemed, aside from vanishing from their foyer before their eyes, of course. Hermione kept to herself, going over the encounter in her memory.

Professor McGonagall had seemed very...professorial. Not like Professor Flitwick, who'd been quite social and gone to considerable lengths to put everyone at ease. She was also obviously surprised to hear he'd visited them, which made Hermione curious. Clearly he hadn't mentioned it to her - maybe they just hadn't run into each other? But then why had she sounded so...put out about it? Hermione resolved to pay close attention to interactions between the Professors. It wouldn't do to get on anyone's bad side before even turning in a single assignment!

But that vanishing trick seemed quite useful, rather more so than turning an entire room colors, no matter how proud Professor Flitwick had seemed to be of the accomplishment. Hermione made another note to keep an eye out for that while reading her books, something she was frankly itching to begin. The past couple days waiting had been almost torture - Professor Flitwick had said there was probably no point in reading the Wicca and other 'magic' books at her library, which left her with little she could do to prepare.

She'd memorized the Letter, of course, including the list of books, equipment and supplies she would need. And after hearing the Professor's explanations about 'Accidental Magic', she went over all her memories of the odd 'lucky' experiences she'd had over the years, writing them down in as much detail as she could remember and going over common features. It seemed clear that emotion was a frequent contributor, if not necessarily intent. But _need_ had been an element of almost all of them, and that made her wonder a bit about her priorities, but only for a moment. Books were _important_, after all. But she hadn't tried to do any more Accidental Magic on purpose, partially since the very concept was rather contradictory, but more because of Professor Flitwick's intimations that though it rarely caused lasting or irreversible harm, Accidental Magic _could_ on occasion be dangerous.

So instead she'd resorted to one of her problem-solving techniques, which told her that if she couldn't do anything productive at one level of the problem, to move up or down a level and try again. She'd seen for herself that precise wand motions were important, so she'd checked out a few books on increasing her manual dexterity, and had spent several hours working through both juggling and sleight of hand exercises. From what Professor Flitwick had said, spellbooks weren't referred to in practical situations, spells were meant to be entirely memorized, so she re-read her books on mnemonics as well.

But finally the day had arrived, they were here, and they were approaching number 113. Hermione felt as if her eyes were sponges, ready to soak in every detail and file it away for proper consideration.

The Leaky Cauldron was, accordingly, something of a disappointment.

"A pub?" said Hermione with mild incredulity. Little more than a small window and a door, hardly noticeable between the large and busy shops on either side of it. But then, Witches did apparently have that concern about secrecy, so she supposed they'd _want_ it to be easily missed. Her parents, however, were scrutinizing the pocket street map they'd brought, looking back and forth between the bookshop and record store.

"Maybe it's one of those out-of-sequence places, further up or down a ways?" mused Mr Granger. Hermione, perplexed, cleared her throat, glancing at the pub's entrance.

"Not by the listings...not that there was a listing for this place anyway," observed Hermione's mother.

"Um," said Hermione.

"She really ought to have given us landmarks if it was going to be trouble to find," complained her father.

"Hey!" Hermione interrupted, raising her voice a bit. Her parents turned to her, looking surprised and a bit irritated. "I'm sorry," said the girl, "but it's _right there,_" she explained, pointing. The couple looked at the bookshop, then the record store, then their daughter. Their eyes didn't even slow as they passed over the door of the pub. Admittedly, it was extremely dingy, but it's not like it was _hidden_. Unless...secrecy…?

"Take my hands," she said suddenly, reaching an arm up towards each of her parents. For a moment it seemed they would object, but they looked at each other, then did as she asked.

Their mouths fell open.

"I guess that means you can see it now?" asked Hermione excitedly. "Let's go, then!" She tugged them forward, and her father opened the door to the pub with his free hand, staring in wonderment. As the three entered the darkened interior, they saw Professor McGonagall stopping short in front of them, looking quite different - the drab flower print had been replaced with an elaborate pointed hat and a sort of formal robes in emerald green.

"I was just coming out to explain how to resolve the protections against muggles noticing the Leaky Cauldron, but I see Miss Granger has worked that out on her own," she said, sounding mildly impressed. "Well, it's done at any rate, so shall we get started?" The Professor spun and led them through the pub towards the back, the hem of her robes waving gently with the vigor of her stride, and somehow looking much more natural than the very normal dress she'd been wearing before.

The other denizens of the Leaky Cauldron wore a collection of equally unusual garments, and glanced with mild interest at the Grangers as they passed. Hermione's parents seemed freshly intimidated by the suddenly-appearing pub door and the mild strangeness inside and stared fixedly at the Professor's back, while Hermione instead tried to look around in every direction at once, lingering on the chalkboard listing drinks and dishes on offer (Butterbeer - two sickles, Gillywater - three sickles, Vagabond's Pillow - five sickles, eleven knuts), as well as the sole book visible - being read by a young man in the corner, it was titled 'Creatures of the Far East and Which Parts of You They Find Delicious'. But before she could really begin to puzzle out the illustration on the back, they were already through, and into a cramped courtyard.

It had the look of exactly the sort of place - had this actually been an elaborate ruse - where a couple of toughs would've emerged from the shadows and demanded all of the Grangers' money valuables. But before Hermione's parents had time to form such thoughts, McGonagall had withdrawn her wand from her robes and smartly tapped a particular brick in the courtyard wall three times. There was an eye-twisting rearrangement of the bricks into an archway, beyond which was a bustle of color and activity. The Professor urged them through, then followed herself, the archway shifting back into a solid wall as quickly as it had formed.

Diagon Alley was impossible in several ways. First, it clearly couldn't fit where it was situated, at least not if Hermione's parents' street map was at all accurate. Second, many of the buildings looked as if not only building codes but indeed fundamental principles of load and balance were not so much _laws_ as polite _suggestions_, easily worked around if you were in a hurry. And Third...it was _too much_. Her parents might've been rooted to the spot if they hadn't feared losing Professor McGonagall in the busy streets. Whereas every direction Hermione looked revealed at least a dozen things she didn't understand and would dearly like to have had explained to her (or have her guesses confirmed), except half of them would be gone when she glanced back and every step they took brought _another_ dozen into view.

In desperation, Hermione focused on _just_ memorizing the names and locations of each shop they passed, with a few examples of what seemed to be on display in the windows - and giving special attention towards any that seemed to sell books, of course.

The Professor's businesslike pace brought them quickly within sight of Gringotts, whose bright and straightforward architecture quite clearly stated 'I am a _Bank_. I am sturdy and reliable - indeed _impregnable_ - and none of that haphazard tilting nonsense will be brooked _here_, thank you kindly.' The very normalcy of it - even if the bronze doors were a bit ostentatious - helped the elder Grangers relax a bit.

"Some muggles are taken aback at discovering that Gringotts is a goblin-run bank," said Professor McGonagall suddenly as they approached. "A few have even screamed upon seeing their first goblin, though you seem more open-minded than that sort," she added with elaborate casualness, aiming a friendly glance towards Hermione's parents. Hermione wasn't sure she'd ever heard anyone refer to her parents as _open-minded_, but having heard themselves suggested as such, they'd no doubt be doing their best to live up to that expectation. Just in time, too, as there was in fact a goblin standing guard outside the bank. Mr. and Mrs. Granger nodded politely to him, trying not to let their eyes widen, while Hermione examined him as closely as she could without actually staring, and added another fifty or so questions to her mental list of things she needed to know immediately or sooner.

The Professor coached Mr. Granger through the relatively simple money-changing transaction. He had to do it himself, as the goblins took fiduciary responsibility _very_ seriously, and would not allow the Professor to act as an intermediary without a lot of tedious documentation - which they would also have charged various fees to witness and certify. Mostly she stressed that he should _not_ count the coins as he received them. Hermione's father actually seemed a bit _more_ nervous due to all of the fuss, but managed to get through without incident. He'd apparently taken the Professor's advice about excess to heart, as he'd given the teller around three hundred pounds, and received three sizeable bags of coin in return. After leaving Gringotts, the family examined some of the coins curiously while Professor McGonagall explained the coins' relative values.

"They're so light, but solid," remarked Mrs. Granger, hefting a couple of Galleons in her palm. "Gold is at two-eleven per troy, isn't it, dear-" she glanced at her husband, who nodded, "so at five pounds to the Galleon there can't be much more than a third of an ounce of gold in each coin. What's the rest?" Dentists had to buy metals for fillings regularly, and she seemed relieved to have something familiar to discuss for a moment.

"Magic," said Professor McGonagall, with a prim smile. "As I understand it, the minting process makes counterfeiting quite difficult while also enhancing durability, though goblins are quite reluctant to discuss the details of their metal-magics with outsiders." Mrs. Granger's brief comfort slipped visibly from her face. Hermione was still thinking it over, however.

"What do the goblins do with the normal...ah, muggle money they get?", she asked. Without people on each side frequently buying things from those on the other, she wasn't sure her mother's assumptions about the exchange rates made sense. Professor McGonagall frowned, then shrugged.

"I'm sure I do not know...I suppose they keep it on hand for customers who need exchanges in the other direction?" She seemed about to say something else, but visibly changed her mind. "Best get you to Madam Malkin for a fitting first, then we can complete the rest of your shopping while she's preparing your uniforms and pick them up after." The tall woman strode away, leaving the Grangers to scramble in her wake to catch up. Hermione's mental list was getting rather long, and she resolved to write it down as soon as she had a pen and paper.

The fitting went smoothly, though Professor McGonagall waited outside with Hermione's parents so she had no chance to ask any useful questions - Madam Malkin was extremely focused on her task, which Hermione found commendable in general but a bit irritating in this particular circumstance. She began to worry that Professor McGonagall's efficiency would be equally inconvenient, not allowing her any time to explore more than the bare minimum, and used the remainder of her fitting to work out a solution to that problem. Outside the shop, she tried to put it into practice.

"Um, I was thinking, rather than visiting each shop in turn, maybe we could split up? The larger book shop - Flourish and Blotts, was it? - looked rather busy. I could go there and get all the books...I mean, well, not _all_ the books-" she laughed nervously, "but the ones on the list, plus you know, if I saw one or two other interesting ones...while you three went around for the other things?" It really _was_ a good idea - the fact that it'd let her have as much time as possible to peruse the book stores was just a happy bonus, wasn't it?

Her parents were accustomed to this sort of negotiation, and chuckled. They didn't have a problem with it, but checked with Professor McGonagall. The older witch shook her head ruefully and muttered something Hermione didn't catch, though it sounded like it ended with '-claws', but also didn't see a problem with it, as long as Hermione stayed in the shops on Diagon Alley proper, taking - and she stressed this - _no side streets_. Hermione cheerfully agreed to this condition, though of course she had to ask why. The Professor did that eyebrow thing she did for a moment, then admitted that the street connected to other areas, 'less appropriate for children'. Whereupon her parents reconsidered their earlier agreement, and Hermione had to convince them she was entirely responsible and only wanted to look in bookstores, and she'd done the same thing in the City before, and it's not as if there weren't some unpleasant parts of London…

In the end, they gave in. She _was_ very, very responsible for a girl her age, after all.

o-o-o

A couple hours later, the little fellowship had reformed, quite a few galleons lighter but along with the other items and supplies, over a dozen books heavier. Even Hermione's parents hadn't been able to resist picking something up from one of the book shops they'd checked before locating their daughter - 'So, Your Daughter's a Witch: A Guide to Magical Adolescence'. It wasn't written with muggles in mind particularly, but it didn't seem to be aimed at a particularly intelligent audience so they figured they could puzzle things out from context. All that remained now was to buy Hermione's wand, so Professor McGonagall led the way to Ollivanders Wand Shop. The sign read 'Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.', and Hermione scratched another question onto her list with the self-inking quill she'd since acquired.

"We shall wait outside for you, Miss Granger," declared Professor McGonagall.

"Oh...is wand-buying a private process?" asked Hermione, fascinated. McGonagall pursed her lips.

"Personal, certainly, but not particularly private - it's just that it can occasionally take time and it would be quite cramped inside for four." Hermione was somewhat nonplussed by the answer, but nodded. She collected a handful of galleons from her parents, then entered the shop.

She could see immediately what McGonagall meant - the shop was narrow to begin with, and tightened further by shelves of long narrow boxes covering every available inch of the walls. No one was immediately visible, but the door caused a bell to ring somewhere in the rear of the shop. She studied the boxes while she waited. Few of them were labeled in any way, unless the color of the box was some sort of code. Though many of the boxes were so coated in dust the color wasn't even immediately apparent. Hermione wondered why they would keep so much unsold inventory in a shop so small. With wands a seemingly central part of magical life, she'd have expected it to be much more like an electronics store showroom, with various models displayed prominently - as other shops had in fact displayed broomsticks, come to think of it.

"It's a problem of selection, you see," issued a soft voice behind her. Hermione whirled around with a startled 'eep'. She stopped as she came to face a white-haired old man who was watching her quietly. There was something odd about his eyes.

"Sorry?" Hermione asked when she'd regained her composure, not sure if the man had been literally answering her thoughts, but not ruling it out either. He waved a hand lazily at the shelves surrounding them.

"Selection. But in reverse - 'the Wand chooses the Wizard', as goes the saying. Or Witch, of course, but it's a very old saying, you know," he elaborated, apologetically. "Wands do not think, not _truly_. But they can mirror our emotions in many ways. They _feel_. A wand is an extension of your personal essence, and the ideal wand is matched to that essence as closely as possible." Hermione drank in the words greedily. _This_ was clearly someone who knew things worth hearing.

"So you need to keep a disproportionately wide variety of wands on hand, since you never know what will be needed until someone walks in?" she confirmed.

"Just so," said the man, his eyes twinkling. They were not just light grey, but actually silver. Hermione wondered if he had non-human ancestry, like Professor Flitwick, or if sliver eyes were just a natural variation for wizards.

"Garrick Ollivander," said the man, introducing himself. "And your name, young lady?"

"Hermione Granger," she said, after offering her hand politely. At her name, the man stiffened slightly in the act of shaking her hand.

"Just so," he whispered, in a strange echo of himself. For a moment he just stared at her, until Hermione began to shift uncomfortably, and he seemed to shake himself out of a daze. "Muggle-born, I see," he noted, glancing down at her clothes, "I suppose you've no hint of your ancestry...magical, that is?" Hermione shrugged.

"If anyone in our family has known about magic, they certainly never mentioned it to us - we were all quite surprised - though it sounds like they would've been _expected _to keep it to themselves?" The old man nodded, then began to peruse the shelves, muttering to himself.

"No, no...no...I know it's here somewhere." He moved further into the shop and climbed most of the way up a ladder, craning his neck to examine more out-of-the-way boxes. "Have to try it of course, after so _long_…ah." The old man stretched an arm up to extract a box from a shelf near the ceiling, then clambered back down to rejoin Hermione. The box was actually itself made of wood, carved with intricate vines. He slid back the lid and withdrew a delicate-looking wand of a pale tan wood. "Muggle-born...which hand do you write with?" he asked.

"Right," said Hermione, raising that hand. Ollivander extended the wand to her, thick end first. It had been intricately carved, making it seem as if six vines had twined around each other to form the shaft. She took the wand gently, her fingertips nestling easily into the gaps in the carving, and at the man's urging motion, waved it through the air. Immediately the tip gave off white sparks, and Hermione felt a tingle up her right arm. She was thrilled and amazed, but Ollivander wasn't done yet.

"Now the left," he said, leaning forward slightly. Hermione obediently switched the wand to her left hand and waved it similarly. This time, a thin line of blue vapor trailed behind the wand's tip, swirling slightly in the air. Ollivander's eyes widened. "There it is, then," he whispered. Hermione was distracted from her pleasure at producing the trail of smoke, which was both pretty and fascinating, and gave the wandmaker a somewhat vexed look.

"Um. I have to ask, because you keep whispering like that, and you seemed to recognize my name...is there something unusual about me? Or this wand? It seems quite old, but it looked like you picked it out specifically, and Professor McGonagall said that buying a wand can sometimes take a long time, which - along with the old saying you mentioned - implies I might have to test a few out, like shoes, only this one does seem to have worked quite well on the first try, which means you _expected_ it would work for me in particular for some reason…" Hermione rambled a bit, because she still wasn't comfortable enough with magical customs...maybe speaking in hushed tones was just a normal part of the process?...but the whole experience had been a bit weird.

Ollivander regarded her for a moment, clearly weighing his words, then nodded to himself, seeming to come to a decision, and shrugged.

"'Unusual'? I couldn't say - we are each unique in our own way, are we not? But to be sure, you are meant for that wand...among other things. You have a _destiny_, Hermione Granger. But I think that if you knew it in full, you might not necessarily fulfill it as naturally." His words dripped with meaning and portent, but also a sort of absent casualness (which was a trick common to wandmakers).

"I _really_ need to know what all of that means, absolute top of the list, right now. And if this is just some sort of terribly elaborate sales pitch, I shall be _very _cross and ask Professor McGonagall to help me buy a wand somewhere else," said the girl, crossing her arms and attempting to sound stern, though there was a note of pleading in her demand as well. The old wandmaker shook his head and withdrew a gnarled dark wand from his robes.

"I have little doubt you will learn...everything in Time, Miss Granger. But it will not have been now, nor from me," he intoned. Hermione's brow furrowed at his choice of phrasing, but before she could complain about it, a bright flash issued from the tip of Ollivander's wand, and she was Obliviated.

For the _second_ time that day.

o-o-o

Hermione emerged from the shop, swishing her new wand and staring wonderingly at the white sparks.

"I see your purchase went well," remarked Professor McGonagall. Hermione nodded absently, still staring at her wand.

"I had to try out almost a dozen until this one worked. Vine wood, with a dragon heartstring core, apparently? Is it always white sparks," she asked, producing another burst of them, "or does that depend on the person? I meant to ask Mr. Ollivander, but I...guess I got distracted." Her brow furrowed a little, but her train of thought was broken by Professor McGonagall's reply.

"Usually sparks, the color may vary, and please refrain for the moment, Miss Granger?" Hermione stopped swishing her wand, looking contrite. "There is a law that prohibits under-aged children from using magic outside of the auspices of appropriate magical supervision, with a few extremely limited exceptions," continued the Professor. Hermione was appalled, and her mouth fell open for a moment.

"I can't _practice_ at home?"

A respectful but lively debate on Ministry policy ensued as they receded from the shop towards the Leaky Cauldron, their progress followed, unnoticed, by a pair of silvery eyes behind a darkened upper window.

o-o-o-o-o

A/N: Thanks for being patient with all this set-up and mysterious foreshadowing. I promise we'll actually get on the Express next chapter, and start taking canon really off the rails (see what I did there?).

A/N 2: In response to a couple of questions on reviews: No, you didn't miss something - the _first_ obliviation isn't shown at all, it was left out for added suspense (and hopefully dramatic effect)!


	6. Chapter 4 - Revision

Chapter 4 - Revision

The days until Hermione could leave for Hogwarts seemed to drag at first. She was extremely eager to study her actual school books, but Professor McGonagall had been quite explicit that practising spellcasting or potion making at home was 'quite out of the question'. Since that was the obvious next step after memorizing them, she knew that _not_ being able to practice would drive her round the bend, so she decided save them until the last possible minute.

Instead, she tore her way (metaphorically!) through the other books she'd picked up. After all, there was a lot of background information most of the other students would already know just by virtue of having grown up in wizarding homes. She figured it might well making learning actual magic easier to have that down first.

She'd read Modern Magical History, Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century, The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts, and of course Hogwarts, A History. Then she'd read them again. She tried a third time, but she'd basically memorized them by that point.

And that was the first week.

After a couple of days of making notes on what she'd read and trying to draw some new conclusions, she convinced her mother to take her back to Diagon Alley for more books to fill in obvious gaps in her knowledge. She'd also suggested that there were a few things she'd read about that her mother really ought to buy right away and keep around the house - potions and pre-enchanted items that muggles could still _use_, even if they couldn't _make_ them, for emergency first-aid and such. She _was_ a little uncertain as to what interactions there might be - if say, heaven-forbid, her parents had a need for a blood-replenishing potion, it might end up confusing doctors after going to the hospital, and if they couldn't _tell_ them what they'd taken… Hermione decided until she could confirm with someone knowledgeable about both magic and muggle medicine - if such a person existed - that such things wouldn't do more harm than good, she'd only recommend ostensibly 'naturopathic' remedies, like Essence of Dittany and the like.

Hermione ended up buying An Appraisal of Magical Education in Europe, Hogwarts Houses: Heaven-Sent or Hardly Worth It?, Dragon Species of Great Britain and Ireland, a copy of the Legislative Guide to the Proper Use of Magic, Practical Household Magic and the Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2. She'd selected the latter two to make sure she would have enough materials to work beyond the standard curriculum if she needed to, but firmly placed them with the other school books she was holding off on reading. The rest she read, and re-read, and took notes on.

And that was the second and third week.

Now there were only two weeks left, and though Hermione did understand on some level how smart she was, and took innocent joy in sharing things she'd learned with other people, she'd somehow never developed overconfidence when it came to _studying_. So with 'so little time' remaining, she was starting to get a bit nervous and finally dove into the _actual_ books her Hogwarts classes had assigned, reading each of them at _least_ three times, to be sure she'd fully memorized every word.

And that was the fourth week.

Having memorized her copy of Magical Theory, Hermione was now quite confident she could control when she tried to do magic and when she didn't. More specifically, that it would be safe to practice spell incantations and wand motions with no actual intent to cast a spell without either running afoul of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, _o_r producing Accidental Magic. But she didn't want to risk associating a mental habit of _not_ intending to cast a spell along with the full motions and wording, so she decided to practice each element separately instead.

In that vein, she broke down the wand movements from all the spells in the Standard books (Grade 1 and 2) as well as Practical Household Magic, and found that there were a great many common elements - swishes, flicks, circles (widdershins and deosil) and so on - that, if mastered, would make it much easier to quickly learn _any_ spell, so she drew up a practice schedule. She also continued on with her juggling and sleight-of-hand exercises, and made a point of practicing the wand motions with either hand.

The incantations were another matter. The vast majority of them _seemed _to be based on Classical Latin, though the pronunciation often differed from the accepted norms. Given how long magical history seemed to stretch back, Hermione surmised that the magical pronunciation might actually be closer to the _genuine_ original usage, since for muggles Latin was a 'dead language' and the accepted pronunciations had been reconstructed largely through theory, whereas wizards had apparently been using them continuously for at _least_ twenty-five hundred years. Either that, or there was some magical significance to _changes_ in normal pronunciation, but if that was the case, it wasn't discussed in Waffling's introductory text. Hermione made a note to look into it when she had a chance, but for the moment, she sensibly practiced the incantations according to her Hogwarts books and _not_ the ones from her local library.

Finally, the date marked on the ticket Professor McGonagall had given her came. Hermione made sure her parents got her to Kings Cross Station by 8 AM, a good three hours before the Hogwarts Express was scheduled to depart. Partially this was just due to her naturally responsible nature, but part of it was due to a loophole (though Hermione refused to use that term, even in her head, and firmly considered it an 'interesting fact') she had discovered in the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery. Namely that the Hogwarts Express, being wholly owned and operated by the school, was _legally_ considered part of Hogwarts itself, and thus the Decree did not apply to spells cast while _on the train_. It didn't even have to be in motion. And since the train (and platform nine and three-quarters) was used solely for the purpose of transporting Hogwarts students, it arrived at the station quite early in the morning and simply sat there until the posted departure time. Taken together, that meant an enterprising student might theoretically get in nearly _twelve hours_ (counting travel time) of spellcasting practice, at least ninety minutes of which were likely to be largely uninterrupted.

After Professor McGonagall's thorough explanation, Hermione had accepted that the law was primarily meant to avoid students endangering themselves or others while trained professionals were not conveniently nearby to undo the results of any mishaps. So in that sense, since school faculty usually arrived at Hogwarts well before classes began and thus were typically not present on the Express, casting spells on the train might be considered violating the _spirit_ of the Decree, if not the letter. Hermione wrestled with this ethical dilemma for some time, but eventually decided that since she intended to be very responsible and only practice the simplest and most harmless spells, and even then, there _would_ be upper-year Prefects on the train who could be summoned in an emergency, that it would be irresponsible of her _not_ to take advantage of the very limited window of opportunity she'd found to practice before arriving at the school, and would thus try not to feel too bad about it.

After arriving at King's Cross Station, her parents helped her get her trunks (she'd ended up needing two, to fit all the extra books - magical and muggle - she'd wanted to bring) onto a cart and accompanied her to to the vicinity of platform 10.

"Well," said Hermione's father. "I guess this is where we get off." Her mother was smiling but clearly trying to hold back tears. Hermione had never really been away from home for any length of time, and now she was going to leave for nearly _four months_, until Christmas break. Hermione suddenly regretted asking to be dropped off early so she could get extra practice. The train ride itself was over eight hours long, she could've spent the extra three hours having breakfast with her parents, watching mum and dad trade sections of the Times, double-checking to make sure she hadn't left any books she'd regret not having.

"You could come onto the platform with me, I'm sure it would be all right," she said.

"No, no...I'll just make a scene," insisted her mother. "I don't want to give the...other parents a worse impression of us than…" she trailed off without finishing the thought. The three stood in awkward silence for a moment. They all knew - Hermione from her extensive reading, the Grangers from various anecdotes in So, Your Daughter's a Witch - that the typical magical attitude towards muggles could be described as, at best, 'condescendingly tolerant'. The young girl suddenly hugged her parents fiercely.

"I love you so much...I miss you already! I'll try to make you proud," she said, her face half-buried between their shoulders as they crouched down to hug her properly.

"Of _course_ you will, sweetheart. You're destined for great things," whispered her father, huskily, his voice slightly muffled by her stubbornly bushy hair. Hermione felt a twinge of alarm, and deja vu. The word '_destiny_' floated through her mind, but couldn't find anything to attach to and faded away, taking the alarm with it. They held each other for as long as they could ignore the disruption they were causing in traffic between the platforms, and even a few moments beyond, but the Granger responsibility streak ran deep, and they broke apart.

"I snuck extra brushes and paste into your trunk, enough for an entire term...for all we know they're still using swine bristles and ground oyster shells," said Mr. Granger, trying to lighten the mood.

"I read once of an old toothpaste recipe that included 'dragon's blood'," Mrs. Granger added, smiling tremulously. Hermione laughed nervously with both of them, and did not mention that her book on dragons had in fact noted the creatures' blood had many uses, including cleaning properties, and was mostly non-toxic, so the anecdote was more plausible than it sounded. She took a deep breath.

"Okay. I'm ready. Help me get it going?" Hermione asked. The cart was tricky to start moving, so loaded down as it was. Her parents took hold of the cart's handle on either side of their daughter and pushed until she could guide it alone. Hermione made sure it was aimed properly at the barrier between platforms nine and ten, then turned to wave over her shoulder at them as she pushed until there was a sudden shimmer, then her parents were gone, and she was looking back at wrought-iron archway labeled 'Platform 9 ¾'.

o-o-o

Hermione sunk back into one of the seats of her compartment, relieved. She'd tested a few of the simple spells from Practical Household Magic, and they'd all worked perfectly on her first try (the upholstery in the compartment was now quite fresh, the windows were spotless and the compartment door opened and closed smoothly with nary a sound). In fact, they were _easy_. Which she supposed was the point...if household spells were difficult, people would just do those things the normal way, wouldn't they?

As it happened, she'd ended up casting her first spell almost immediately after arriving. The platform was quite deserted - if there were to be any porters for the train, they hadn't arrived yet, and Hermione was left to puzzle out how to get her two heavy trunks up the stairs into a car on her own. A quick mental review of the contents of Practical Household Magic suggested a Floating Charm, which was recommended for use when you had weighty things to carry but didn't want to pay the fixed attention to them a Levitation Charm would require. She'd stepped onto the stairs into the car first - so she was technically _on the train_, as her narrow interpretation of the law required - ran through the incantation and gesture a few times in her mind, and only then went ahead and tried it on her trunks. Sure enough, their weight had been essentially removed, so she could just tug them behind her as if they were half-filled helium balloons, albeit ones that still retained the _inertia_ of fully-loaded trunks.

And the excitement from a properly cast spell was, well...almost addictive. Her memory of producing sparks from her wand - after trying several that did nothing - that first time in Ollivanders felt curiously matter-of-fact, almost dull, as if she'd done it (or seen it done) innumerable times. But _this_...this was something else, entirely. Sometimes, when she'd been reading a particularly advanced book or working out some tricky bit of math and suddenly understood a concept or realized what the solution was, there was this wonderful _feeling_, mostly in her head (her mother had said it was probably 'endorphins'). But casting spells, it was like that, only in her head, _and_ her arm, and sometimes her whole body.

Concerned that if she let herself become distracted by continuing to test spells, she'd lose track of time, Hermione elected to change into her school robes now to get it out of the way. She didn't have a particular aversion to changing in front of other girls if she ended up sharing the compartment, but there was nothing to say the compartments would be segregated by gender, so there might well be boys, too. While Hogwarts _was _a boarding school, so she assumed the other students would be more mature than her previous classmates had been, and she hadn't checked the size of the train bathrooms yet, so she decided better to be safe than sorry. Once she'd finished and packed away her muggle clothing, she went back to trying out spells.

Eventually, Hermione began to notice a lot more people though the outside and inside windows. Her stomach fluttered a bit as she imagined meeting other students. She hoped she'd read enough to make a good impression. Maybe things here would be different, since witches and wizards were so rare, everyone would have something in common and make friends naturally and there wouldn't be any _issues_…

The door to the compartment slid open (still noiselessly) and a girl entered. She was Hermione's age, and also already wearing her Hogwarts robes, though she was quite pretty, with dazzling red hair.

"Are any of these seats taken?" she asked.

"Not yet, feel free," responded Hermione cheerfully. "I'm Hermione Granger," she added.

"Mary Sue Bottomwater, nice to meet you," the girl said, with almost saccharine sweetness. Hermione's reading had prepared her for the sometimes bizarre wizard surnames, but this seemed like a _particularly_ silly example, and she had to make a deliberate effort not to react to it. "Are you a first-year too?" the girl asked.

"Oh, yes. I'm a bit nervous, to be honest, but excited. You?" Mary Sue shrugged at Hermione's question.

"I wouldn't say nervous, but I'm _very _excited, I can't wait. Usually there's an exam first thing. I suppose you've already finished memorizing all your school books too?" she asked casually. Hermione's smile faltered. There would be an exam as soon as they got there? She hadn't read anything about that…

"I have, but I didn't know there'd be an exam so soon...I should probably do some revision on the way just to be sure," she answered, uncertainly. Mary Sue's eyes widened, and her smile broadened in what Hermione utterly failed to interpret as a 'devilish' way.

"Oh, good!" exclaimed the girl. "We can quiz each other! Me first. What was the trigger for the 1486 Goblin Rebellion?"

"Oh, um...it's believed to be a reaction to Yardley Platt, the notorious Dark Wizard who made a hobby of horrifically murdering goblins. Let's see, what's the second ingredient in a Forgetfulness Potion?" Mary Sue seemed surprised Hermione had answered so quickly, but came back quickly herself.

"Two Valerian sprigs," she answered, correctly. "What syllables are stressed in the Levitation Charm?"

"'Gar' and 'o'," responded Hermione. "What's the Second Principle of Transfiguration?"

"The more similarities two things share to begin with, the less concentration it takes to change one to the other. How can you tell a Devil's Snare from a Flitterbloom?"

The girls went back and forth in this fashion for several minutes, Hermione getting more and more enthusiastic while Mary Sue seemed to become increasingly frustrated and suspicious. Finally, the redhead threw her hands up in exasperation and her voice dropped an octave and lost all pretense at cheerfulness.

"Alright, let's come clean. Obviously you're not a first year - if Charlie told you about my brilliant prank idea even though he _swore_ he wouldn't, I am going to give him a hex he won't soon forget! Unless you _are_ Charlie?" The girl narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

"What?" asked Hermione, quite confused by the sudden turn the conversation had taken.

"Oh, come off it. Tell me who you really are, or I'll see for myself," Mary Sue said warningly.

"I already told you, my name's Hermione Granger. What are you talking about? What prank?"

"Have it your way, then," the other girl said grimly, drawing her wand - yellowish, with dark brown rings up the shaft. She pointed it at Hermione, made a complicated half-twist with a figure-eight loop and said, "_Homorphus!_". Hermione gaped at her and drew her own wand, though she couldn't bring a defensive spell to mind before Mary Sue finished her own. But nothing seemed to happen, other than Mary Sue's expression becoming as confused as Hermione's.

"I know it's _technically_ legal to cast spells on the Hogwarts Express, but I'm fairly certain students casting spells _at_ each other is at the very least frowned upon if not expressly forbidden," said Hermione sternly. "Besides, I don't even know what that spell was supposed to _do_, and I've read all the way through Grade 2...who are _you_, then?"

"So...you _are_ a first year? And you've _actually_ memorized all your school books?" the girl asked, ignoring Hermione's question for the moment.

"Yes, of course!" said Hermione, a bit testily. "Is that...not something Hogwarts students normally do?" she asked, somewhat hesitantly. She'd been so relieved when the girl had first mentioned that… Mary Sue meanwhile sat heavily onto one of the compartments' seats and laughed, shaking her head ruefully.

"Serves me right, I guess," she said, seemingly to herself. "Charlie will wet himself when he hears, though I suppose he's actually in Romania by now." She waved her wand over her black Hogwarts robes, which shimmered and became a rather larger set of open brown leather robes, over another blousy set in shades of black and grey. The girl herself shook slightly and _grew_ to fill out the clothes - she looked several years older now - while her face became somewhat less pretty and her hair turned, for some reason, purple. She tucked her wand into a sleeve.

"Name's actually Tonks," she said to Hermione. "Graduated last year, and thought I'd have a spot of fun since I happened to have a free day, and get in some infiltration practice. Some first-years show up thinking they already know everything and it's good to deflate them a bit, whereas others can use a good scare to break the tension, and maybe a few kindly tips for any who are _already _scared to death and need a little lift. When you claimed you'd memorized your books, I thought you were just copying me and were the first sort, but I guess you actually _do_ know everything." She grinned. Hermione just stared at her for a moment. If this was the sort of thing Hogwarts _graduates_ thought was a good idea, her hopes about the maturity level of boarding school students seemed rather less likely to be fulfilled. She put her own wand away, with mild reluctance.

"I don't know _everything_...I've only had five weeks or so to read," she said, a bit defensively. "But you're saying...to scare first-years, you Transfigured yourself, and were pretending to have memorized all your books." Hermione wasn't sure how to feel about that. It seemed a bit far to go for a prank, and besides that, it didn't sound particularly complimentary towards Hermione herself.

"I have a trick for that, actually. And hey," said Tonks, noticing the downturn in Hermione's mood, "don't sweat it. It's nothing to be ashamed of...imagine all the free time you'll have, not needing to study!"

"I suppose…" said Hermione, though she found it difficult to imagine _not_ studying.

"Well, you could always help _other_ people study. That's actually a good tip for someone like you, come to think of it. You know about House points and all that?" Hermione nodded. "Well, the better Professors will give you just as many - if not more - points for helping students in _other_ houses as they do for actually answering questions in class yourself. Just a thought," she finished, offhandedly.

"Were you in Hufflepuff?" asked Hermione.

"Yep. That obvious?"

"Well, your suggestion _did_ seem very Hufflepuff, from what I've read. Though I've also read that the supposed House virtues aren't quite so fundamental as they're made out to be. I've been very curious what House I'll be Sorted into, you see." Tonks laughed again.

"I'm not the most Puffy of 'Puffs, I'll admit. I can't help looking for ways to get around rules, it's a sickness. But you're right, after graduation the Houses don't mean all that much, and even in school they're not _that_ definitive. The virtues are definitely _there_, though, whether because people were Sorted because they already had 'em or because they know the reputation and think they need to _live up_ to them, like-" she adopted a gruff masculine tone, and her chin briefly grew to heroic proportions, "'Well, I'm in Gryffindor, so I'd better fling myself into danger like a complete prat! Charge!'" Hermione laughed, despite herself.

"They're not _all_ like that...some of 'em are even more devoted pranksters than I am, and it _does_ take true bravery to try to get away with anything while McGonagall is hovering over your House... But there can be cleverness in Hufflepuff, and helpfulness in Gryffindor, new Ravenclaws are _constantly _hatching devious plans to get into the Restricted Section, and hell, I've even seen bravery from Slytherins on occasion." She paused in thought for a moment.

"I think what it comes down to is, you ought to be in a house that'll help you make the _most _out of Hogwarts. Either surround you with people you can use as good examples for something you _want_ to bring out in yourself, or at least who you'll be able to just _get along with_ for seven years." Hermione nodded. From that perspective, Slytherin didn't sound much better, but Gryffindor seemed a little less attractive than it had - she had a dim view of pranking from her years in school thus far, however Tonks might rationalize it.

"But...it's up to the Sorting Hat, right?" she asked.

"Well, little secret...the Hat can be negotiated with. You can't _fool_ it, as far as I know, but you can maybe _convince_ it, if you have good reasons. My mum had enough trouble after marrying my dad...I didn't want to get in the middle of any pointless rivalries, so I asked the Hat to keep me out of Slytherin _or_ Gryffindor, and Merlin knows I only study in extreme emergencies - like trying to meet the Auror qualifications - so Ravenclaw was out. I made the best of it...Ravens may get better marks, but a 'Puff will _never_ refuse to help if you ask, and I'll take a study group of four patient 'Puffs over one reluctant Raven any day. Not that you couldn't be a _helpful_ Raven if you wanted. In the end, _you_ decide who you want to be, not which dorm some moldy headgear says you have to sleep in." Tonks grinned, and Hermione nodded thoughtfully.

"Anyway, I'm going to give this one up as a bad job and dash. Can I ask you to keep this whole thing under your hat? Not my finest hour, and all..."

"I suppose, if that's what you want. You actually _have_ been very helpful, and it was good to have someone to quiz against without feeling intimidated. Plus, if you've already graduated, it's not as if you _technically_ broke any school rules, I suppose..." Tonks cackled in delight.

"Thanks, I'll owe you one. Be careful of that word, though…"

"Which?"

"_'Technically_'. Take it from me...once you start down the dark path of rule-dodgery, forever will it dominate your destiny…" she paraphrased, grinning. "Fortunately for me, Moody thinks it can make for better Aurors." Tonks winked, and Disapparated, and Hermione was left alone again with only an inexplicable foreboding for company.

o-o-o

It wasn't long after that other students - _current_ students, this time - started joining Hermione in the compartment. All first years, as older students didn't seem to want to sit with first-years, nor did many first-years apparently have the courage to try to join a compartment with older children. Hermione found herself sharing a compartment with two twin sisters named Padma and Parvati, and a shy blond girl named Hannah.

A woman with cart came by early on selling sweets, and they'd each bought a couple, the others explaining the unfamiliar products to Hermione. While they snacked, they engaged in innocuous small talk which Hermione nevertheless found interesting, as much of it involved nuances of magical society that she hadn't yet picked up from her reading.

Even if Tonks hadn't meant it maliciously, the experience of her prank had made Hermione accept the premise that her study habits _might_ be considered intimidating by some people, so rather than being entirely forthcoming, she'd decided to just wait and see what other people said. After several hours of chit-chat, it somehow hadn't come up, so she decided to try dropping it in herself, casually.

"So, have any of you read much of your school books yet?"

"A little, just to see" said Parvati, at the same time Padma said, "Some." They looked at each other, and Padma shrugged. "I got caught up in the Potions book, it's interesting."

"I thought I ought to wait until a Professor said what to read," said Hannah quietly. All three girls gave her quizzical looks. "Well, you know, some of our books were printed an awfully long time ago...what if the Professors give out corrections? I'd have ended up learning something _wrong_."

"That's...actually quite a good point," said Hermione, sounding surprised. The concept had never even occurred to her - she was used to getting fairly new textbooks from her school - but thinking about some of the publication dates she'd seen, she had to admit it was worth keeping in mind. Even under this mild praise, Hannah seemed to blossom.

"I do already know some herbology, though, my mum's quite good at it," she offered, smiling. "We've a garden at home, and she sells sometimes to the shops in Diagon Alley. What do your folks do?"

"Mum writes a recipes column for the Daily Prophet," said Parvati, "and dad is a curse-breaker for Gringotts," finished Padma. They looked to Hermione.

"Er, my parents are both dentists." Hannah nodded at this, while the twins looked confused. "People muggles go to when their teeth hurt, to fix them, or to help keep them clean," Hermione elaborated. They began to consider this apparently foreign concept, and Hermione noticed Padma was staring openly at her mouth. "There's a different sort that _straighten_ people's teeth," she added with mild chagrin, lowering her face a bit and closing her lips to hide her front teeth.

There was an awkward silence for a moment, which was broken by a knock on the compartment door. Hermione leapt to her feet to open it, eager for a distraction. There was a round-faced boy outside, his cheeks a little wet.

"Excuse me, I've lost my toad...I just wondered if any of you had seen it?" Padma and Hanna wrinkled their noses, though Parvati looked sympathetic. They all shook their heads, however.

"I'm Parvati...what's _your_ name?" Parvati asked gently.

"Oh, Neville. Neville Longbottom."

"When did you see it last?" asked Hermione. She'd wondered about that bit of the Letter that mentioned bringing animals, and had assumed it was like a witch's familiar. But while owls apparently shared a unique affinity with witches and wizards, displaying unusual (by muggle standards) intelligence and an apparently magical ability to navigate, Hermione hadn't read anything that suggested they (or cats, or toads) established any supernatural _connection_ with the wizard that owned them. This seemed to be more evidence of that, otherwise presumably Neville could've used it to help find his pet.

"About an hour ago. I'd lost him earlier in getting settled on the train, but my gran found him for me," he said glumly.

"How'd she do that?" asked Padma.

"She used a Summoning Charm. But I don't know how to do anything yet, I only just got my wand." Hermione had seen references to the Summoning Charm in her reading, but the spell itself wasn't in any of her actual spellbooks. She supposed that meant it wasn't considered a Practical Household Charm, which was odd, as it seemed likely to be quite useful...maybe it was taught to everyone at Hogwarts, but later on than second year, which didn't bode well for trying to work it out themselves even if Neville _did_ remember the incantation.

"Well, there must be plenty of older students on the train," Hermione said reasonably, "Since this is the last compartment, we'll just go back through in the other direction until we can find one who knows the spell." The boy nodded, looking pathetically grateful. She waved to the other girls and set off down the hallway with Neville in tow.

The first compartment she opened held a pair of boys, with messy and red hair respectively. The redhead was brandishing his wand, which made Hermione think it was at least worth asking, though she guessed they were also first-years, based on their size.

"Excuse me, do either of you know how to do a Summoning Charm? Neville's lost his toad," explained Hermione.

"Uh, no," said the redhead. "Think it goes 'achio' or something, mum does it all the time at home."

"All right, thanks. Sorry to interrupt. Were you about to practice a spell?" she asked with some enthusiasm, trying to be polite.

"Yeah…" He cleared his throat elaborately.

"Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow; Turn this stupid, fat rat yellow," he intoned, waving his wand imprecisely at the apparently sleeping - and unwell, if the condition of his fur was any indication - rat on his lap. Nothing happened, which did not surprise Hermione at all.

"You didn't get taught that spell by a girl named Mary Sue by any chance, did you?" she asked tentatively.

"What?" asked the redhead. "No. My brother, George. Probably wrong on purpose, he and Fred think they're Merlin reborn when it comes to pranking," he said, a bit glumly. Hermione narrowed her eyes.

"Are they in Gryffindor?" she asked. The boy nodded. Hermione sniffed sharply, then turned to Neville and said, "Sorry, just one second." She drew her wand, pointed it at the sleeping rat and said, "_Colovaria!_" The rat's fur obligingly turned bright yellow, and all the boys' mouths dropped open. "Just act perfectly normal," Hermione suggested, "when your brother sees him, he'll be trying to figure out how you got his silly made-up spell to actually work." She nodded in satisfaction, then turned to continue down the hallway. Neville shrugged helplessly, then followed.

"Who was _that?_", she heard the other boy ask from behind her as she walked, followed by the voice of the redhead, who said, "No clue, mate, but she's bloody brilliant - George'll go mental!" Hermione felt a _bit_ guilty that what she'd done and suggested _itself_ might count as a prank, but decided that there must be some pranking equivalent to the legal theory of justifiable self-defence, and let the warm glow of the offhanded compliment propel her onwards.

In short order, they managed to find a fifth year who had no problem (after Neville informed him the toad was named Trevor) Summoning him, to Neville's sincere gratitude. Hermione left Neville in his compartment with an admonition to keep a closer eye on Trevor, then made her way back towards her own compartment. Along the way, she had to press herself firmly against one wall to avoid being trampled by a trio of boys who pushed past without even acknowledging her, one of them whinging about probably having been poisoned by a diseased yellow rat. She decided this was probably not a coincidence, so she poked her head into the redhead's compartment.

"What happened?" she asked, observing their sweets had been scattered around a bit. "I was nearly bowled over by some boys running down the corridor - they, uh, seem to think your rat may be diseased." The two boys rolled back into their seats with laughter.

"Bloody perfect," said the redhead, wiping away a tear and lifting the rat up by his tail to examine him. "Seems like he's all right - just sleeping again, if you can believe it. Anyway, what was all that about, sounded like Malfoy'd already met you?" he asked the messy-haired boy. The other boy described a brief but unpleasant interaction with someone Hermione rather _wished_ Tonks'd had the opportunity to 'deflate'.

"Yeah, my dad's told me about that lot. Came running back after You-Know-Who vanished, claimed they were bewitched, but my dad thinks it's bol-" he glanced at Hermione, "er, rubbish. Anyway," he said, turning to Hermione, "that's _two_ I owe you, if Malfoy's mate thinks Scabbers' given him Yellow Fever or some such. I'm Ron Weasley, this here's Harry Potter."

"Hermione Granger," she offered. "And you're welcome." She paused for a moment, then asked Harry, "_The_ Harry Potter?" He nodded, a bit uncomfortably. "Goodness...you're in several of the books I got for extra reading, but it never occurred to me you'd be here at all, much less in my year. I really ought to have done the math."

"I'm...in books?" he asked, somewhat taken aback.

"Yes, but it's all very complimentary," Hermione said, trying to reassure him. She couldn't imagine what _that_ felt like, and thought it a bit odd as well that he seemed not to _know_ about it, since he'd had ten or so years to learn to cope. But then the books really said nothing at all about what had happened to the baby _after_ somehow impossibly saving Britain - and arguably the world - by virtue of being mysteriously invincible. Clearly there was more to his story, but she couldn't think of a casual way to ask, and there wasn't really time anyway. "Anyway, you two ought to change, the train's slowing so we must be quite close. I'll see you at the Sorting," she said, then left to return to her own compartment, closing the door behind her.

o-o-o-o-o

A/N: So, I had this brilliant plan wherein Hermione would meet seventh-year Tonks, and she'd become her mentor through first year and there'd be hi-jinx aplenty. Halfway through writing, I did my belated due diligence and discovered Tonks graduated the year _before_ Hermione started.

Awkward, but I'll work that out. In any case, I decided to leave it in as just a cameo, with a little tweaking. Someday (possibly when I get an editor) I'll learn how to throw away something I've written, but for now, you'll have to pry my little fantasies out of my cold, dead hard drive.


	7. Chapter 5 - Partition Problem

Chapter 5 - Partition Problem

Disembarking from the train was a chaotic bustle of black robes. Fortunately an announcement had advised students to leave their luggage, or it would've been a nightmare. Hermione had wondered how it got to the proper places - particularly given a seventh of the students hadn't been assigned a dorm yet. Hogwarts, a History didn't mention anything about liveried staff...perhaps the conductor who ran the Express - a seasonal occupation if ever there was one - had his own temporary staff who would see to them, or knew some broad charm he could use to send them properly off?

Most of the students were heading towards a long line of carriages, but a voice began calling out for "Firs' years" to follow him, and upon seeing the voice came from an _enormous _shaggy man carrying a lamp, no first-years felt it prudent to disobey. For all his size, he seemed friendly enough, and apparently knew Harry already, as he called him out by name. Hermione edged her way through the crowd to stand next to the boy, nodding politely to Ron and Neville who were nearby - the latter clutching his toad so tightly it's eyes were bulging a bit.

"Who's that?" she asked.

"Oh, that's Hagrid...he's the groundskeeper here, and, uh, something about keys. He's really great!" answered Harry enthusiastically.

"Keeper of Keys", Hermione suggested, nodding.

"You're a _first-year_?" asked Ron, incredulously. "I'd reckoned you were a Prefect and just, er, really short." Hermione laughed at what she interpreted as another offhanded compliment.

"No, I'd have had a badge, wouldn't I? I certainly _hope_ I make Prefect, when the time comes," Hermione said, a bit wistfully. Hagrid was leading them down an alarmingly dark and slippery path. Though he held aloft a large lantern, it wasn't doing much for the students towards the back of the group, so Hermione withdrew her wand.

"_Lumos,_" she said, holding the tip low so it illuminated the ground some distance around her without disrupting anyone's night vision. It wasn't nearly as much light as Hagrid's enormous lantern, but it helped a little for those nearby. Though the students who noticed seemed more surprised than grateful, and whispers began to circulate.

"So how do you know all these spells already?" persisted Ron. This seemed like an obviously stupid question, but Hermione reminded herself what Hannah had said about her books - there might be other equally good reasons to have not opened a single one, so she tried not to get snippy.

"I practiced on the train. The instructions in the books are fairly clear if you read carefully," she added, modestly.

Ron's expression suggested he didn't think this was a proper explanation, but their conversation was interrupted as the path carried them around a clump of trees. A variety of appreciative noises floated up from the group as the Black Lake and the elaborate castle that was Hogwarts itself came into view for the first time. Hermione had already seen pictures of it, of course, but they'd been somewhat grainy and monochrome - even considering they'd been animated, she had to admit that they hadn't properly prepared her for seeing it in person.

Hagrid directed their attention to the little boats on the shore and instructed them to board, but no more than four to a boat. Hermione looked around for her compartment-mates (since they'd already established a convenient group of four), but she saw another girl she didn't know had already joined them on a boat, and was talking animatedly with Parvati.

She saw Harry, Ron and Neville were sharing a boat - Hermione was worried if they continued their conversation, it would end with one or both of them feeling uncomfortable, but there wasn't much for it. She stepped into the boat with them and tried to look like she was deep in thought, as that might dissuade him.

Of course, the easiest way Hermione knew of looking like she was deep in thought was to actually _be_ deep in thought, so she began to consider the impending Sorting. She already had a good idea what she was going to say (or 'think'?) to the Hat on her own behalf, but she wondered about the other first-years, who might not have had the same advice she'd been given. That led her to consider the Sorting as a _whole_, and she immediately saw a possible problem.

There were about forty of them, and an even mix of boys and girls. So naively, that would seem to work out, five girls and five boys to each of the four Houses. But what were the odds of everyone's best-suited House working out _evenly_, like that? It seemed a lot more likely you'd have a little more here, a little less there. Then, if you took preference into account...well, from her reading, Gryffindor tended to get a lot of 'good press', and Slytherin much the opposite...wouldn't you expect there to be a lot more kids who'd rather be in Gryffindor than Slytherin?

The question was, did the Hat make completely objective decisions? Or did it take into account that, from the perspective of the administration, things would be a lot _easier_ if the Houses were divided evenly...what if Gryffindor ran out of beds? Fairer, too, taking House points into consideration...if the populations became too lopsided, there'd be a significant advantage to the 'fuller' houses, wouldn't there? So what would the Hat do if there happened to be, say, seventeen perfect Hufflepuffs in a given year? With each Hufflepuff Sorted, would the Hat make the criteria stricter for subsequent Hufflepuffs and less strict for the others? But then the _order _in which students were Sorted would make a large difference...those assigned earlier would tend to have a better chance of getting their preference or the best match of House. The school had been running for so long, Hermione assumed they _must_ have figured out a way to make it all work, but she just couldn't see what it was...

By now, they'd made their way to a hidden harbor beneath the castle, and Hagrid had led them up a flight of stairs and into the castle itself, having just handed them off to Professor McGonagall inside the main door. She was wearing the same green robes she'd worn to Diagon Alley, and was looking very stern.

Hermione raised her hand.

McGonagall's expression did not alter, though she might have taken slightly deeper breaths for a moment.

"As we progress, I will be informing everyone of everything they _need _to know for tonight's itinerary. Everyone please hold your questions for another time?" Hermione reluctantly lowered her hand, and there were titters here and there from other first-years, though they vanished instantly at a sharp look from the Professor.

McGonagall led them through the enormous entrance hall past a large - closed - doorway, beyond which a great many voices could be vaguely heard, and into a small chamber, bereft of comfort or decoration. She welcomed them to the school, then explained - rather briefly, in Hermione's opinion - about the Sorting and the House system. The Professor didn't even give any details on the Houses, though Hermione was pleased to note she at least mentioned that every house had "produced outstanding wizards and witches", but that wasn't _nearly_ enough to undo the reputation of Slytherin, if promoting objectivity had been the intent.

"I shall return when we are ready for you," said McGonagall, pointedly avoiding eye contact with Hermione. "Please wait quietly," she instructed, then spun on her heel and strode out.

The children all looked terrified, and began looking at each other, though only a few ignored the Professor's instructions and whispered urgently. Hermione wasn't afraid, but she _was_ feeling a bit peeved. That _had_ to have been deliberate. But why would she want to frighten everyone just as they were entering the place at which they would be spending more time over the next seven years than their _actual homes_? And she'd been quite quick not to let Hermione ask any questions. Was it...could there be some _benefit _to the students being almost entirely ignorant of what was going on? She noted that it _hadn't_ been mentioned in Hogwarts, a History, which now seemed an odd omission for something so fundamental to the operation of the school.

Well...if there _was_ a reason to keep it secret, then by her omission, along with what she'd said earlier, Professor McGonagall had _technically_ told Hermione that she did not _need_ to know that reason, had she not? And if that was true, then she must not be concerned about preventing students from telling anything they _did_ know (or possibly, did not expect they knew anything of substance, noted Hermione's responsible side). Hermione itched to follow this line of reasoning to its logical conclusion and start loudly telling everyone everything she knew. But the Professor had been quite explicit about waiting quietly. She decided to compromise.

"It's not that kind of test," Hermione whispered to the students nearby. "The Sorting Hat just decides, based on your qualities and potential, which House best suits you. It apparently takes your preferences into account, though you may need to be fairly stubborn about it. However, the reputations the Houses have aren't entirely fair, and I've read that some people think House rivalries do more harm than good at the school."

Hannah, Harry and Neville looked at her consideringly. The Patil twins were whispering to each other while looking in her direction, and Ron looked unsure.

"What, our lives are in the hands of a ruddy hat?" he said, not whispering as quietly as he might have.

"Not our _lives_, Ron, just where we _sleep_. Every House can be just as-" She was interrupted by a stubborn rebuttal from the redhead.

"Who could _get_ a proper sleep if they were surrounded by Slyth-" _He_ was interrupted in turn by a scream and several gasps, as a bunch of ghosts having a conversation floated straight through one of the walls. It took a moment for them to realize the room was occupied, and one of the glowing figures asked the first-years what they were doing there.

"Failing to wait quietly?" answered Neville, rather uncertainly, who it appeared wasn't entirely convinced they wouldn't be tested, or weren't being tested _right now_. Parvati put her hands over her mouth to stifle a giggle.

"A gaggle of first-years on starting day, I'd say you're about to be Sorted," said the bald one who looked like Friar Tuck, smiling tolerantly. Hermione saw this as a defensible opportunity - since they were _already_ talking, now - to get some more answers.

"Yes, exactly. Would you have any advice for us on that?" she asked quickly.

"Do we _want_ his advice?" muttered Padma. "He did get _killed_, after all…"

"Oh, just be yourself," the rotund ghost said merrily. "If you're very lucky, you'll get into Hufflepuff, like I did!" A blond boy on the other side of the group sniggered.

"Doesn't _seem_ very lucky," Padma continued, still under her breath, though Parvati tried to shush her. At this point Professor McGonagall returned and all interesting conversation ceased...events which Hermione was beginning to suspect might be causally correlated, though of course her sample size was still rather small.

"If you _would_?" she said sharply to the ghosts, waving a hand towards the Great Hall. "We're about to begin the Sorting Ceremony." The ghosts wafted off agreeably through another wall, seemingly unruffled by the Professor's snippiness. Hermione supposed being dead for a while might make it harder to get upset by that sort of thing.

McGonagall led them back out the door they'd come in, then into the Great Hall. Hermione wondered about the wisdom of lighting the room by candles floating overhead everywhere, but she supposed if they could make candles ignore gravity, wax drippings should solve themselves. She peered at the closer ones as they passed, trying to see what exactly happened - would they just pool under the wick, or halfway down, or…

Hermione's examinations of the candles were interrupted as Professor McGonagall brought them to a halt, the line stretching out in front of the High Table where the other Professors and Staff were seated, but facing the four other _very_ long tables that held the rest of Hogwarts' students. A twitch of her wand conjured a simple wooden stool, which she placed in front of the center of the line. She then produced a large pointed hat from somewhere - Hermione thought it only a _bit _odd she hadn't noticed her carrying it before - and set it on the stool. She'd thought Tonks was just being derisive by calling it moldy, but the hat looked filthy and it now seemed quite plausible there was mold or worse hidden in its various folds and patches.

Hermione made a concerted effort not to sigh audibly as the Hat began to _sing._

Not that she had anything _against _singing, exactly, but the lyrics were a bit irritating. While they at least had more details about the Houses than the Professor had seen fit to provide, they were quite simplistic, and held the exact sort of bias that Hermione had been hoping to counteract with her comments in the waiting room. _I mean, __**honestly**_, she thought, _'use any means to achieve their ends'? It's essentially saying, 'Any kids I stick in here, watch 'em close, because they're probably already halfway evil.' And it's saying this about __**eleven**__-year-olds_. Was it really any wonder if more Slytherins than average became Dark Witches or Wizards, living seven years with _that_ hanging over their heads? The bigger surprise was that _any_ Slytherins managed to graduate well-adjusted, and yet that was something that apparently _did_ happen regularly, according to her books.

As the hat bowed to the House tables - not to the first years, she noted, though the song had clearly been meant for them - Hermione wished there was some way to undo what the hat had done, but speaking out of turn _now_ seemed entirely out of the question. Professor McGonagall stepped forward, unrolling a narrow scroll.

"When your name is called, sit on the stool and put on the hat to be sorted. Abbott, Hannah!" The shy blond girl from Hermione's compartment walked slowly to the stool. She glanced at Hermione, who nodded encouragingly at her, then sat down, putting on the hat, which slumped over her eyes, as it was - somewhat curiously, given its ostensible purpose - not sized for an eleven-year-old.

She sat there for a little over a minute, her mouth slowly turning down into a frown. But after she suddenly stuck her tongue out, the Hat immediately responded with a shout of "GRYFFINDOR!". One of the tables began cheering and applauding, waving her over, and as the girl approached it, a few of the students at the table stuck their tongues out at dramatic angles, as if in salute. Hannah seemed a little embarrassed, but was smiling brilliantly. The girl gave a spirited thumbs-up gesture to Hermione after she'd sat, which made her smile back. It seemed her advice had at least helped _one _person.

Hermione watched the process closely as each student was called up. The length of time under the hat varied. For most it was quite short, though some took longer, though only one other took as long as Hannah. Finally it was her turn, and she strode confidently to the stool, taking a seat and placing the hat over her head.

_Don't just yell 'Ravenclaw', please...there are some questions I wanted to ask,_ she thought immediately. From seeing the other students Sorted before her without hearing a word, she'd suspected either some sort of silencing charm, or actual telepathy, and given the hat's _task_, the latter had seemed more likely.

"So I see," came a voice into her head after a moment, sounding a bit weary. There was a pause, then, "May _I_ ask a question or two first?"

_Of course,_ Hermione thought, politely.

"What is my proper name?" asked the hat. Hermione was confused by the simplicity (and the reflective nature) of the question, then suspicious. She wasn't sure where it was going with this.

_I imagine it would be 'the Hogwarts Sorting Hat',_ she thought tentatively, hedging in case other magical schools had their _own_ Sorting Hats.

"You're _sure_?" it asked, a bit coyly.

_Well, as sure as I **can** be, given there's so little written about you,_ Hermione responded, a bit peevishly. _That was actually part of what-_

"Maybe you just haven't read enough books yet?" it interrupted, almost sounding as if it was _taunting_ her. She mentally dug in her heels and refused to give it the satisfaction of a defensive reaction.

_I'm sure I haven't,_ she thought, projecting cheerfulness._ There are obviously a lot of them, after all. But I do what I can._

"Ah, that will work out splendidly, then!"

_How is that?_ she asked, suspicious again.

"Well, since, as you quite correctly answered, I _am_ the Hogwarts _Sorting_ Hat, and not, for example-" the hat's voice took on a particularly playful tone, "the 'Hogwarts _Question-Answering_ Hat', I'll just let you get on with your reading…"

_But-_

"RAVENCLAW!"

Hermione wondered - quite deliberately _before_ removing it - if anyone had ever tried to set the Hat on fire. Sadly, even if it was still reading her mind _after _it had Sorted her, the implied threat would be spoiled, since it would thereby also know she'd never _actually_ do such a thing.

Probably.

She _had_ entertained the notion deliberately, with carefully imagined visuals of the cheerful orange flames flickering hungrily. Apparently, being 'outsmarted' by an article of clothing had brought out a heretofore unsuspected vindictive streak in Hermione - which she didn't feel particularly proud to discover, and only further increased her irritation.

There was a hesitancy to the applause, and Hermione realized her feelings must be showing on her face, and they thought she was unhappy about being Sorted into Ravenclaw. She tried to focus on the fact that at least she'd been sorted 'appropriately' - for what it was worth - and that she really was looking forward to seeing what Ravenclaw House was like, and was able to smile genuinely by the time she got halfway to the table, taking a seat at the mostly-empty section reserved for the new first-years.

From the moment the Hat went onto Neville's head, even without being able to hear any details, it was clear from his expression that he and the Hat were embroiled in a contentious debate. A minute passed, then two...three...four… The average volume level of the House tables gradually increased as speculation about what was going on spread. One of the older Ravenclaws further down the table declared knowledgably that he'd read in a book called Hats Off that this was called a 'hat-stall', and was very rare. Hermione would've immediately demanded to know where he'd found that book, but McGonagall had begun to aim particularly stern looks at the louder patches of conversation, so she waited.

In the end, Neville folded his arms stubbornly, and as his face began to grow pale and a trifle blue, it was clear he was actually _holding his breath_, a tactic Hermione had heard children occasionally used but had never witnessed until now. Disapproval was warring with concern on Professor McGonagall's face, but she glanced at the Head Table and the Headmaster gave her a tiny shrug, his genial expression unchanged since the Sorting Ceremony had begun. Neville started to sway, and when it seemed he was about to actually pass out, the Hat relented, with a shout of "HUFFLEPUFF!" The boy released his held breath explosively, then took several great gulps of air, though he half fell off the stool in the process.

There was a brief silence as the House tables digested this. All of that...to get into _Hufflepuff_? But the Hufflepuff students rose almost as one and gave him a standing ovation. Hermione and Hannah joined in, bringing up several other Gryffindors in their wake, while most of the remaining students and Professors only looked amused or dubious. Neville set the Hat back on the stool firmly, then walked to his table, blushing furiously at the applause but looking grimly satisfied, and to Hermione's eye, standing a little straighter than he had before.

Parvati and Padma went to Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, respectively. This surprised quite a few people, since they were twins, and while many had apparently assumed that like _The_ Twins, they'd go to the same House, Hermione had not been so sure. Partially because she'd read articles about twin studies and the nature vs nurture debate, and knew that was far from a foregone conclusion - but also she'd already noticed that Padma seemed more intellectually-inclined, if only slightly. She supposed that even if they'd started out the same, if Padma somehow got _slightly _ahead, Parvati might have then started to rely on her sister _slightly_ more for such things than on her own knowledge, and it could have eventually become a self-reinforcing cycle. Though she reminded herself that she did still need to ask some wizard-raised students exactly _how_ they'd been educated up to this point.

When Harry Potter was sent up, speculation amongst the House tables became a bit more open, though a lot of it seemed to be students who had _also_ neglected to do the math and thus hadn't realized the Boy Who Lived would be here this year. Harry walked to the stool slowly, glancing once at Hermione. She tried to give him an encouraging smile, and he seemed only a little nervous. But the Hat remained on his head for quite some time. He was wringing his hands a bit, and towards the end, he shook his head once emphatically.

"GRYFFINDOR!" the Hat shouted, a moment later.

The Gryffindor table went wild with celebration. She supposed it was because he was famous - it'd be like having a movie star come to live with you, or something. Or maybe they thought it linked their House with his defeat of You-Know-Who? Not that she imagined a baby could really be capable of _any_ virtues let alone Gryffindor's particularly, nor how they would help against an extremely powerful wizard. Hermione also wondered what Harry's apparent debate with the Hat had been about...it must've suggested a different House first, but she really hadn't interacted with him enough to have a good model of his personality, so it was hard to guess which it might've been.

The last few students were Sorted - the Hat shouted "GRYFFINDOR!" quite soon after touching Ron's head, and he'd given Hermione a grateful look afterwards, as if only her advice that he could insist on it had allowed him entry - then the Headmaster rose, to say a few words before the food was served.

Which he did.

There was widespread applause and cheering as he sat down, though the applause from the Ravenclaw table seemed polite at best. Many of the first-years looked at each other as if trying to decide how to phrase a question delicately, or if they'd sound stupid for asking.

"Gryffindor," Hermione said with a soft sigh, and the first-years became thoughtful.

"Well, yes, there is that," admitted a nearby older girl. "But he _is_ quite old...my great-grandfather is younger than Dumbledore, and _he_ sometimes wears his underwear on the outside of his robes. But apparently he's been doing this sort of thing for some time. Dumbledore, that is, not my grandfather."

"My dad thinks it's strategy," said another boy, "he's just started acting peculiar early so when he _does_ eventually go senile, no one will be able to tell." Hermione frowned.

"Because he thinks it would be good to maintain his various important positions even after he's _genuinely_ lost his faculties?" she asked, dubiously. Everyone in earshot appeared to give this some consideration, but any resulting concern was interrupted by the sudden appearance of a wide variety of food and drink along the center of the tables, and the hungry students immediately began helping themselves.

"I was under the impression food couldn't be conjured...where did all this come from, exactly?" Hermione asked, curiously.

"The kitchens, of course," said a third-year boy further down the table. "Hogwarts' House Elves do the best cooking I've ever tasted, though don't tell my mum I said so," he continued, breaking his grin to make room for a bit of sausage.

"Sorry if this is obvious, but I'm muggle-born...what's a House Elf?" Hermione asked. Clearly she hadn't picked up enough background reading...she could've _easily_ squeezed in another five books, maybe even _ten_ if she hadn't re-read some of the less interesting material…

"Wonderful wee things," answered Morag MacDougal, another first-year girl who'd been Sorted after Hermione. "They know all kinds of magic for doing things for ye, mending, cleaning, cooking and such. Only the more distinguished families keep one, but Hogwarts has, oh, I don't know, dozens at least. Our House Elf, Geagol, can make these wee roses out of strawberry ice cream that are so lovely ye almost can't bear to eat them!" Hermione tried to estimate the combined salaries of dozens of magically-talented live-in servants, but she hadn't managed to get a good feel for the local economy yet. She wondered how taxation worked, and how inter-connected the muggle government and Ministry of Magic's finances were - there'd been no tuition for Hogwarts, so presumably the school itself was paid for by the Ministry? Unless they had some sort of endowment?

"So I guess your family's distinguished, then?" asked Terry Boot. Morag nodded casually.

"Oh aye, pureblood on both sides for generations. Not that I pay much attention to all that," she added airily, despite having made a point of dropping it into conversation.

"Do the Elves have their own schools? It seems like just humans, here," Hermione noted, looking around. Her books had made it clear that there were a number of intelligent species, but strongly implied that the others were not quite as intelligent as humans, and that their cultures were more primitive. Though she'd already read about the Goblin Rebellions, and seeing as how they ran a bank, Hermione suspected their perceived inferiority may have been because they weren't _permitted_ to use wands rather than anything inherent. From Morag's description it seemed clear that Elves were as least as magically talented as humans, but her books hadn't mentioned them at all. Most of the non-muggle-born students in earshot chuckled.

"_Schools?_" repeated Morag, incredulously. "Merlin, nae...I think they just pass it along tae their children." Hermione tried not to become flustered by the laughter.

"Oh...does their, er, culture not believe in organized education?" she asked.

"They don't have a _culture_, Hermione," explained Padma, patiently. "All they do is work for whatever House they're bound to." Hermione went still. _'Bound'?_ she thought. _That can't mean what I think it means. Almost everyone I've met seems very nice, they can't be keeping __**slaves**__...can they?_ But that was just the part of her that didn't _want _to believe it was possible...she was well aware from her knowledge of muggle history that most slave-owning societies could seem quite enlightened from the _inside_, with lots of polite rationalizations about why it was entirely acceptable, or even a _kindness_ to subjugate a certain class or race. She set down her fork, suddenly not very hungry.

The other Ravenclaws didn't seem to notice her distress, or maybe they just assumed she was a light eater, but the conversation moved on to other topics while Hermione tried to decide what to do. She'd have to be careful and do more legal research...for all she knew there were sedition laws or other restrictions on speech or protest. Or maybe she _was_ interpreting things incorrectly, and there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for what only _seemed_ like a horrible ethical scar across magical society.

Eventually, after the food vanished and was replaced by an equally wide assortment of desserts - which Hermione also abstained from - and after a moderate interval those had vanished as well, the Headmaster rose once again. He gave some entirely sensible and not at all insane-sounding notices about not entering the forest (full of dangerous magical creatures), not using magic in the (crowded) corridors, and something about Quidditch trials - a term which Hermione had come across in her reading but only in passing.

Then he gave another one.

A handful of students laughed, but Hermione didn't think it sounded particularly funny. Except the upper-year Ravenclaws were nodding, not as if this was simply a poor joke they were ignoring, but rather as if it was just another typical notice. Then again, maybe it was? Hermione had formed the impression that magic was, in practice, a lot more prone to life-threatening accidents than muggle technology (automobiles notwithstanding)...so she supposed there was no point in couching things in euphemisms if doing so would endanger children.

They then 'sang' the school 'song', and Hermione wondered if there might be not-so-subtle differences in musical sensibility between the muggle and magical cultures. She tried to pick one of the upper-years nearby and follow their tune, but she couldn't really make it out in the cacophony, so she tried to fit her own tune, but the _meter_ of the lyrics kept changing. Halfway through she gave up and sang it to scales as best she could, changing direction on alternating lines.

After the Headmaster dismissed everyone, Robert Hilliard, a dark-haired fifth year, led the first-year Ravenclaws on a winding path through the castle. He advised them that since today was a Sunday and it was an odd-numbered year, Ravenclaw Tower could be reached through taking four right turnings, one left, then two more right on the Grand Staircase. This involved actually back-tracking at one point, but given the movement of the flights of stairs, it all seemed to work out. They followed him up another spiral staircase which wound along the wall of the tower itself, around an empty central shaft. Though there was a handrail, Hermione kept close to the wall, and resolved to practice Arresto Momentum from her Grade 2 spellbook daily. When they'd almost reached the top of the staircase, the Prefect stopped everyone and turned to address them.

"Other Houses have the entrances to their Common Rooms obfuscated in some way. But _Ravenclaw_'s stands proudly for everyone to see. There is no knob or handle, only a knocker shaped like an eagle - the symbol of our house. Since someone is undoubtedly about to ask - I don't know for certain why it's an eagle and not a raven, but I suspect it is because only animals noted for ferocity were used in heraldry at the time." Several of the first-years lowered their hands.

"While other House entrances are protected by guarded passwords or codes, the guardian of _our_ door will admit any - and only - those deemed worthy, who correctly answer a riddle it poses, which changes each time it is answered correctly. You will wait here while I go ahead of you and enter, then you may follow and attempt the riddle yourselves - and by all means pool your wits. Since it is the first day, there will be a welcoming party going on in the common room...but only for a half-hour or so, so it's in your interest to apply yourselves. If you take too much longer than that - which would be somewhat disappointing - and no one has stayed later in the common room to read - which is technically possible, I suppose - the door next to the statue of Rowena leads to the dormitories. Girls to the left, boys to the right, first-year beds are on the very top floor - you will move down as you advance in year, as you can less afford the distraction of the better views when your classes become more taxing. Any _pertinent_ questions?"

The first-years looked at each other, but no one spoke. Robert made his way up to the door and used the knocker, listened to something inaudible, then thought for a moment. He said something else they couldn't hear, then the door swung open. The boy waved cheerily at the first-years, then entered, closing the door behind him. Everyone made their way up to the door. Fortunately, the knocker was placed low enough that even the shortest first-year could reach it.

"Let's get on with it, then," said Michael Corner, who reached up and rapped the knocker.

"A man left his first son eleven knuts, the second eight knuts, and the third ten knuts. What was the man's profession?" came a gentle, almost musical voice. There was a collection of confused looks.

"What do you call a person who sells nuts?" asked Terry. "Is there a name for that?"

"I think it meant k-n-u-t-s knuts, you know, money?" suggested Kevin Entwhistle. "It said 'left', like he's dead and it was in his will or something."

"That wouldn't even make any sense," complained Amanda Brocklehurst. "The specific amounts ought to matter somehow...how are that much - or little - money and his profession connected?"

"They sort of are," argued Morag, "if he can only leave his sons so few knuts, his job doesn't pay very well, does it? That narrows it down a little, we can just start guessing along those lines."

"We're meant to _figure it out_, though, aren't we?" asked Sue Li. "Just guessing seems like cheating."

"Narrowing it down shows we're smart!" insisted Morag. "It'd take ages to guess without that."

"_If_ you're right," warned Anthony Goldstein. "Just because he _did_ leave them that much doesn't mean he _couldn't_ have left them more...maybe he's just being responsible with his money, or he didn't particularly _like_ his sons."

While Hermione listened to the byplay with half an ear, she pondered the riddle. She agreed with Amanda that the amounts were probably important, and possibly the fact that it was money as opposed to other countable objects. There was something about the situation in the riddle that sounded familiar, which was odd as she hadn't even heard of knuts until a few weeks ago...

"Oh!" said Hermione. Everyone looked at her. "I think I've got it, but I'll wait if anyone else wants a chance to figure it out for themselves," she said, trying to be considerate.

o-o-o-o-o

A/N: Sorry that took so long! Aside from a few fixed points, I'm trying to write this 'organically', which is to say, by the seat of my pants. But I wasn't sure I was comfortable with how things came out with the Sorting, and I actually ended up writing several different versions, a couple of which were _vastly_ different. In more than one, Hermione's conversations with the Hat were _much_ longer. In one, she and Harry were sorted into Slytherin. In another, Hermione and _Hannah_ were sorted into Slytherin, and Harry and _Draco_ were sorted into _Hufflepuff_. I think I could - barely - defend the logic behind any of those scenarios, but the one I stuck with is a less jarring departure from canon and does send the story in mostly the direction I'd wanted. I may have Hermione run into the Hat in Dumbledore's office later, though, some of those conversations were _interesting_.

P.S. Anyone who thinks they know the answer to the riddle (and you're reading this ***before*** I've posted Chapter 6), send it to me in a PM (_not_ a review, don't spoil it for others!), and I'll list people who got it right in the next chapter's author's note. ;)

[Edit: P.P.S - I don't know why I originally put 'after' above...I hope people aren't waiting to PM because of that, which would make no sense, as the answer will be given in the beginning of Ch. 6.]


	8. Chapter 6 - Unexpected

Chapter 6 - Unexpected

Hermione was eating breakfast at the Ravenclaw table with her new House-mates. When the food had appeared, the Ravenclaw table had been the only one with a full complement of first-years in attendance...apparently some of the other Houses' new students were having some difficulty in finding their way to the Great Hall. Hufflepuff was only missing one - who'd apparently wandered off - the rest having been led there by older students. The young Ravenclaws had been left to work it out on their own, but had all managed. Late first-year Gryffindors and Slytherins were still gradually trickling in, being welcomed to their tables with ribbing and derision, respectively.

As Hermione had discovered after they'd gained entrance to the Ravenclaw welcome party the night before, the large common room held a great many bookcases, comprising a private library of sorts. Many of the books were rare and some were not even found in Hogwarts' main library itself. One particularly helpful volume - _Engineering Enigmas: An Evaluation of Entry and Egress in an Educational Edifice of Easy Excursion from Edinburgh_ - had contained a careful accounting of many of the castle's more changeable features, and various tips for navigating confidently. It took a bit of puzzling out, though, as it had been written very obliquely - apparently for some reason the author hadn't wanted to use any names or phrases that would _explicitly_ identify Hogwarts.

The Ravenclaw 'party' itself had consisted chiefly of students oohing and aahing at the books, occasionally waving people over to share an interesting passage, and in general a lot more quiet reading than most people would expect to find at a celebration of any kind. Even the older students were involved, as the Tower Library (as it was called) was apparently updated and expanded with quite a few new books each year, over the summer holiday. Hermione had been pleasantly surprised, and had headed up to her bed only _slightly_ later than her habitual bedtime, leaving plenty of other Ravenclaws still absorbed in the books.

She had risen early, not just because it was the prudent thing to do on her first day of classes - which it was - but also so that she might have extra time to visit the kitchens on her way to breakfast. She had not forgotten the disturbing things she'd heard the previous night, and had used what she'd read in _Engineering Enigmas_ to gain access to the only place she was certain she'd find some house-elves, where she might get some first-hand information. After _that_ meeting, she wasn't at all sure what to think. She'd been appalled, of course, that they were dressed only in tea-towels, and they'd confirmed that they were not paid in any way. But every one of them had stridently, indeed _vehemently_ insisted that they were deliriously happy to be working at Hogwarts where there was so _much_ to do and they were very _rarely_ beaten, and had seemed quite scandalized by many of Hermione's questions. In the end, she'd decided to put the matter off until she could talk to Professor Flitwick about it. While he _was_ in the Great Hall for breakfast, it seemed impolite to interrupt his meal for what might be a long conversation, and since she had Charms first thing, waiting until after class didn't seem like _too_ much of a compromise in the face of injustice.

Plus, she had to eat _something_ if she wanted to concentrate well in her morning classes, and the eggs _were_ delicious…

"So...this is the new competition?" The voice had come from behind her right shoulder, then after the pause, switched to her left. Hermione turned, and saw two identical grinning boys with bright red hair standing behind her, their arms folded over their chests. She recognized them as Gryffindors from the sorting, the first ones who'd stuck their tongues out for Hannah. Probably third or fourth years, by their height. Their grins didn't seem malicious, but she wasn't sure they seemed entirely _friendly_ either. "We just wanted to compliment you on your turnabout with Scabbers," said one. "Not that it took us all that long to figure it out - Ron's rubbish at most things, including looking innocent," continued the other. From this, and the hair, it wasn't hard for her to guess that they were Ron's older brothers.

"It wasn't meant to impress you," Hermione said, primly. "I just thought you might think better of tormenting your brother if you had a taste of it yourselves."

"A _taste_? We've older brothers as well, you know...we've had a _banquet_," said one of the Twins with a scoff. "And does this mean you _weren't_ challenging us to a prank war?" asked the other, teasingly. The nearby Ravenclaws glanced at each other, listening, and Hermione looked horrified.

"A 'prank war'? Of _course_ not...that sounds rather juvenile, and likely a horrible distraction from our studies," she said, unconsciously doing a passable McGonagall impression, albeit without her accent. The Twins looked at each other, then shrugged back at Hermione.

"Huh. I suppose we'll have to try to call off all the things we've already set up now," mused one. "Of course, we don't want to be _distracted_ from our studies, so we might not have time to get to _all_ of them between classes…" said the other, his seemingly contrite tone spoiled by a broad grin. Hermione's eyes widened in alarm. "And you know, since you turned him yellow for _noble reasons_, that just makes Ron's fit about it even _funnier_."

"What?" Hermione asked, confused. Ron had seemed _happy_ about it at the time…

"Oh, you didn't hear? Well, that new Slytherin goon that Scabbers bit apparently made a fuss about catching something from him - with the yellow, he _does_ look even more sickly than usual. So the rat - Scabbers, that is-" they grinned at the unnecessary clarification, "is in a cage down in the hospital wing until Madam Pomfrey can make _sure_ he's not actually as diseased as he looks. Even if he checks out, first-years aren't really _supposed_ to have a rat. Dad had wrangled an exception for Scabbers ages ago, but since he's gone after someone, they might actually revoke it. Ron's pretending not to care, but he's taking it a bit hard. Anyway, good luck..." The two strolled jauntily out of the Great Hall.

Hermione sighed. She really ought to have restrained herself on the train...this was what came of stooping to someone else's level. She'd have to apologize to Ron during Charms, though his brothers had a point about first-years only being allowed owls, cats or toads...exceptions to rules made Hermione instinctively purse her lips in disapproval. She began to wonder why she hadn't noticed that at the time.

"You're dragon bait," commented Marcus Belby, a nearby second-year. "It's not as if those two need an _excuse_ for mayhem, but if you've gone and challenged them to a Prank War…"

"I have _not_," insisted Hermione. "Weren't you listening?"

"Well, maybe you hadn't _intended_ to…" he shrugged.

"What did you do, anyway?" asked Terry. Hermione explained, as briefly as possible. The first-years stared at her and a few of the older students glanced in her direction as well.

"You were already casting spells on the _train_?"

o-o-o

Ravenclaw shared Charms class with Gryffindor, and Professor Flitwick made a fuss over Harry Potter during roll call. This embarrassed Hermione slightly on the Professor's behalf - he'd been at the Sorting, so it's not as if he could really be surprised _now_. She supposed that, taken in context, it wasn't _all_ that unreasonable to have an emotional reaction to having the Boy Who Lived in your class, but still.

The tiny Professor gave an overview of all the things they'd be learning to do this term, and demonstrated by making someone's quill leap out of their hand and fly around the room, which everyone found quite impressive. As well as a bit disappointing, since he then had them start practising the simple Wand-Lighting Charm instead. Only it apparently _wasn't_ simple, since only a couple Ravenclaws managed it on the first try - not counting Hermione, of course, for whom it wasn't actually the first try anyway.

Flitwick was very much as she'd found him on his visit to her house. Affable, enthusiastic, talented and clever. It made perfect sense that he was Head of House for Ravenclaw, though when Hermione overheard other students mentioning that he was a past duelling champion, she found it hard to credit, despite her respect for the Professor. It was just hard to _picture_, though to be fair, she had not yet learned much about duelling. Maybe his size would actually be an advantage, since he was a smaller target and all?

As everyone continued struggling to light and unlight their wands, Hermione quietly gave advice to nearby people she saw having particular trouble. She discovered Tonks was correct - the Professor did in fact give her points for helping, though not everyone she aided seemed grateful to be told what they were doing wrong, which baffled her. Weren't they here to learn? And wouldn't they rather hear it quietly from her than be embarrassed if the Professor pointed it out in front of everyone? Nevertheless, she persisted, and gradually made her way closer to Ron and Harry. The former had in fact been casting frequent sullen glances in her direction throughout the class.

"I'm sorry about your rat," Hermione said, awkwardly. Ron shrugged.

"Probably _is_ diseased, and all he does is sleep anyway, useless lump...good riddance," he replied, a bit unconvincingly. And uncharitably...the rat _had_ leapt - literally - to Ron's defence, or at least to the defence of his sweets.

"Still, I never meant for anything like this to happen...I should've been more responsible," Hermione said, sounding genuinely regretful. Ron looked at her oddly.

"Naw, it was brilliant, really. And _he_ was the one that bit Goyle, not you...just one of those things," he said.

"Still, I feel like I'm partially to blame," Hermione insisted. "If they _do_ end up not letting you keep him, I'll get you a replacement pet...one from the actual list." Ron had no response to this other than to look embarrassed.

"How's Ravenclaw?" asked Harry, trying to break the awkward silence.

"Oh, goodness, it's lovely so far," Hermione said, and described the books in the common room. Possibly in more detail than was warranted, but they _were_ quite an interesting collection, and she hadn't even gone over the titles of all of them yet.

"I noticed your Sorting took a while," she said casually to Harry, after she'd finished. It wasn't prying if she didn't ask outright, right?

"Yeah, it wasn't sure what to do with me...said Slytherin could 'make me great' or some such," he replied with a shrug. A few nearby Gryffindors looked surprised.

"Go on, really?" asked Ron, gaping at him.

"Yeah. I gave it some thought, since Hermione'd said the Houses weren't _entirely _like how they sounded, but there was no way I was going to share a dorm for seven years with _Malfoy_, so at the end I just insisted," he said with a shrug. Ron nodded his emphatic agreement with this sentiment.

"Well, just because you didn't go that way doesn't mean you can't be great...just think about what you might've learned from being Slytherin, and try to develop that on your own," Hermione suggested. Ron made a scoffing noise.

"Pfeh...all they'd've taught you is how to be a slimy git, not very great if you ask _me_…", he said, but Harry nodded thoughtfully.

After class was dismissed, Hermione had lingered to ask Professor Flitwitck about the house-elves. He'd first confirmed that there wasn't anything it was outright _illegal _to simply discuss - aside from matters covered by Secrecy Statute, with respect to muggles - but there were quite a few things that might be considered inappropriate for first-years. But he'd answered her actual question readily enough, basically echoing what the house-elves themselves had said. It was uniformly their greatest desire to provide good service and unflagging loyalty - the magical contracts which bound them to the house they served were entirely voluntary, and enforced via their _own_ magic. He didn't know how these arrangements had come to be common - he dimly recalled reading that once, millennia ago, house-elves had been independent and wandered, though even then they had often performed the same sorts of services they did now.

Hermione wasn't _happy_ about this, but given it was voluntary, there wasn't much to do about it, as long as they weren't being tricked into it somehow. The best she could think of right now would be to try to make sure the local house-elves were informed that they had options, and obviously to do some research on how they'd come to the current arrangements. She duly added it to the list of things she wanted to look into.

o-o-o

Herbology was pleasant enough, and Hermione thought it'd be an interesting class, since there were plenty of hands-on experiences they'd be provided beyond what was in the book. All they really did the first class, though, was to do roll call and then take a tour of the greenhouses and school grounds, with professor Sprout pointing out every interesting plant within sight. The Professor was not quite as ebullient as Flitwick, though she had a determined cheerfulness that befitted her other position as Head of Hufflepuff, and her enthusiasm for Herbology seemed easily equal to that of his for Charms.

After that was lunch. The Weasley Twins grinned at Hermione when she came in, but there'd been no sign of any pranking yet. She had decided to ignore them, of course. If there _was_ a prank, she'd just have to deal with it as it happened, but it had occurred to her that they might be pulling a _meta_-prank - trying to make her paranoid when there actually _were_ no threats - so her best defence there as well was to simply act normally.

The class groupings changed in the afternoon, and Hermione's next two classes were with Slytherin. First came Defence Against the Dark Arts. Though it became immediately clear that the class was poorly named, or ought to have been two different classes - there seemed to be a distinct division between defending oneself from dangerous creatures and defending oneself from actual Dark Arts, as the former did not generally _use_ the latter. Hermione wondered if they'd just been lumped together under the common ground of 'bad things', or if it had been done to pad out the curriculum in the earlier years - based on her own reading, a child had little realistic chance of defending themselves against an adult wizard in general, let alone one inclined to use the Dark Arts, whereas driving off minor pests wasn't all that hard even for a beginner, and sometimes didn't even require _magic_. Regardless of her doubts, she paid proper attention...a class was a class, after all.

At the same time, she also paid some attention to the Slytherin first-years sharing the class with the Ravenclaws, hoping to see some evidence for her theories about them not necessarily being all that bad. She got a chance when at one point in the class, Professor Quirrell had asked if anyone knew anything about Hags. Hermione had waited, but after only one person had raised their hand (to mention they ate babies), she raised her own, and when called upon gave a brief (she'd thought) but thorough overview of the topic, then sat down.

"Got one in the family, have you?" asked Malfoy. There was scattered laughter - all of the Slytherins joined in, and even a couple of Ravenclaws, though those got disapproving looks from their fellows. Hermione felt warmth in her cheeks, though she forced herself to meet people's eyes, the Slytherins' particularly. Some of the laughter, she decided, was just at the inappropriateness of the question, but a little more than half of the Slytherins did seem to be taking malicious pleasure in the implied insult. It was much the same as she'd endured for years in her muggle school, and it felt just as bad.

Though curiously, her embarrassment was receding a little more quickly than it used to, and the laughter hadn't lasted as long. Maybe it was her open question about the Slytherins...having something to _analyse_ instead of just feeling embarrassed, was letting her brush it off more easily? Or the fact that she was in a House meant that she now had _implied_ friends, and wasn't quite as vulnerable a target? In any case, she took special note of which Slytherins had (Malfoy and his 'goons', plus Millicent, Pansy and Sophia) and hadn't (Theodore, Blaise, Tracey and Daphne) seemed to delight in the cruelty itself, to see if that pattern held later.

Professor Quirrell didn't intervene at all. He appeared not at all sure of himself, though his rather untraditional (even among wizards) choice in headwear seemed to speak to at least _some_ kind of self-confidence. But he had a stammer, and jumped at loud noises. Nearby students whispered that they'd heard he used to teach Muggle Studies, but he'd gone abroad somewhere to get hands-on experience for this new position, and only barely escaped with his life - the classroom smelled strongly of garlic, which he'd apologized for and explained was 'a regrettable necessity'. Despite his timidity, class discipline didn't break down entirely, since everything was so new to the first-years, and they were genuinely interested in the discussion.

o-o-o

Transfiguration would be the last class of the day for first-years, and before she'd even taken roll call, Professor McGonagall firmly set the tone for her classes.

"Transfiguration is the most dangerous form of magic you will be taught about at Hogwarts, with only the _possible_ exception of Dark Arts. Can anyone tell me why?" She looked quite serious, in a way that few teachers who Hermione had encountered previously had managed. "Miss Davis?" she said, acknowledging the Slytherin girl who had raised a hand.

"Well, Charms can _do things_ to you, and Dark Arts can hurt you or kill you in lots of ways, but Transfiguration can really _mess you up_," she said, and she sounded like the idea was more interesting than concerning.

"That is part of the answer, yes...many mishaps in Transfiguration can be fatal in extremely unpleasant ways, or indeed so unpleasant in general that death would be _preferable_." The class absorbed this sombrely, trying to (or not to, depending on their constitution) imagine Transfigurations that would make someone wish they were dead. "Any ideas as to the other part?" Hermione thought she saw where the Professor was going with this, and raised her hand. "Miss Granger?"

"Well, most Transfigurations aren't permanent. They're tricky to undo since you have to know exactly what was done and do it in reverse, but if you just wait, eventually they'll revert. However, um-" she hesitated for a moment, trying to think how to describe the concept, "_interactive_ changes persist. That is to say, if you turn a rock into a stick, and break the stick, when the Transfiguration wears off, you'll have a broken rock. Or if you transfigure water to acid, and spill it on your hand, the acid would later turn back to water, but your hand would still be burned, and I suppose maybe some of the water would be changed because of how the acid reacted with your hand, though that'd depend on-"

"That is sufficient, Miss Granger," interrupted Professor McGonagall, nodding, "but you are mostly correct. The effects of most Charms and even Potions can generally - so long as they are not fatal - be reversed by cancelling the magic involved directly, or as you noted, simply waiting...though depending on the strength and skill of the caster, you may have a considerable wait. However, a _flawed_ transfiguration - particularly of living subjects - _can_ become effectively permanent, if too much time passes. Additionally, again as Miss Granger noted, changes other than the Transfiguration itself _do_ persist indefinitely, so care must be taken when Transfiguring anything into fragile or otherwise volatile forms."

"However, even more importantly, and with greater relevance to first years - since it will be some time until any of you could manage even a flawed Human Transfiguration - even a simple mistake in _basic_ Transfiguration can result in a form or substance which has _unknown qualities_, the _secondary_ effects of which _are permanent_, unless they can be repaired in other ways!" A sea of confused looks greeted this declaration, though many of the Ravenclaws seemed to be trying to puzzle it out.

"An example," the Professor continued, accustomed to this reaction. "A fellow student during my own time attending Hogwarts attempted to - outside of class - Transfigure a pair of rocks into earrings for herself, that glowed with blue light. Some of you might be concerned about what happened to her earlobes when the Transfiguration wore off-" several female students winced, "but Untransfiguration is _accommodating_. That is to say, a Transfiguration itself, when properly reverted, will generally not cause harm or changes to _other_ things as a result. So in that sense, her attempt _seemed_ both innocent and successful. It was _not._" The Professor paused for effect. "The next day, most of her hair had fallen out. The day after that, she fell deathly ill. It was clear she'd been cursed or poisoned somehow, but even after it was known to be the result of proximity to a flawed Transfiguration, no remedy attempted could halt the progress of her condition. A boy she'd...spent some time with grew similarly ill. She died after lingering quite painfully for another two days, though the boy eventually recovered. _To this day_, we still do not understand precisely what happened." She let this sink in, then leaned forward, and her voice gained intensity.

"I have been instructing Transfiguration for over three decades. No student has ever died during one of my classes, or as a result of misuse of Transfiguration outside of classes. But there _have-been-close-calls._" The class was silent, and entirely cowed. "Accordingly, you will pay complete attention in my class at all times to what you are doing. You will follow any instructions I give in my class _immediately_. If at _any_ time your behaviour _in or out_ of class causes me to feel that you are not giving Transfiguration the proper respect and are thereby endangering yourself and your classmates, that will mark the _end_ of your Transfiguration classes at Hogwarts. Additionally, in that event, a Permanent Injunction Charm against even _attempting_ to use the true Transfiguration Spell would be cast upon you by a Ministry official and not lifted until such time as you or your parents presented good evidence at a Ministry hearing that you had matured sufficiently to try again, _and_ you had found a Ministry-approved private tutor - as you would be unlikely to rejoin _my_ classes in any case. You would of course be expelled from Hogwarts in the interim, since until your sixth year, Transfiguration is a required core subject. I trust I have made myself clear?" There were a couple of yesses, but mostly frightened nodding.

"Now that the introductions are covered, I will call roll - when I call your name, please respond by restating your own name, followed by, 'I understand and agree to the conditions as stated'." She tapped the board at the front of the class and that phrase suddenly appeared in large yellow letters, then picked up a scroll from her desk and began reading names.

Needless to say, her instructions were followed. Hermione, who had read every word of every EULA for every program she'd installed on the Amiga or the IBM-compatible at home (and in fact cancelled the installation of a handful as a result), and who had developed a vaguely sceptical view of the quality of the Muggle Studies curriculum at Hogwarts based on her background reading, hastily reassessed the latter opinion.

"Now that's over with," she said with a sudden smile, once everyone's name had been called, "and lest you expect your next five years in Transfiguration - or more, if you apply yourselves - to be spent in mortal terror…" She tapped her wand on her desk, and with an eye-watering twist it became a large pig, which stood there docilely, only shifting slightly. The students leaned forward eagerly, and a few made quiet exclamations. "At the risk of immodesty, true Transfiguration is the _pinnacle _of the magical arts. No other discipline requires the same combination of knowledge, concentration and precision, nor allows for as much creativity in practice and immediate flexibility in application." The Professor paused a moment, then tapped the pig and her desk returned.

She chose to capitalize on the enthusiasm this demonstration had generated by launching immediately into a lecture on the basics of Transfiguration, insisting that everyone take careful notes. Though Hermione had already read all of this, she took notes just as carefully, due - aside from her natural inclinations - both to Professor McGonagall's warnings of the dangers as well as Hannah's insight that their books might not be current, or even complete. Some of the notes were on the differences between Transfiguration Charms, which were very numerous and quite specialized, and the true Transfiguration _Spell_, which was easy to cast - the incantation was "_Mutato_", and there was no required wand motion - and which could theoretically do _anything_ involving Transformation, but which was _very difficult_ to get to do exactly what you wanted. Most of the notes were specifics on how to approach the latter.

The Professor finally passed out matchsticks to everyone, and explained that their first project was changing them into needles with true Transfiguration. Many students immediately began their attempts, with predictable utter failure. Hermione followed her notes and the reading, which said the first step was to identify and keep a firm mental image of as many points of comparison as possible between the target and the destination, and only _then _cast the spell, aiming to eliminate all the divergences. After a couple of minutes, she had the obvious list, as did most of the Ravenclaws, who began their own attempts. But it seemed clear from the reading that, since they were so inexperienced with the proper concentration and had little 'magical strength' to speak of, their success _today _would depend much more on their mental pictures. So Hermione continued on, making estimates from memory of the chemical structure and composition of wood versus steel, and even of carbon, hydrogen and oxygen versus iron, filling several parchments with relevant calculations and diagrams.

She got so involved in this that, by the time the class was nearly over and Professor McGonagall was coming around to collect matchsticks - which were largely unchanged except for those of a couple of Ravenclaws who'd managed to make them slightly more pointy - Hermione hadn't started a single attempt. She hadn't even taken her wand out.

"Miss Granger, practice and practical application is _essential_ to your understanding of Transfiguration. I am aware that my introductory speech can be intimidating to some students - as it is _meant_ to be - but please at least _attempt_ the assignment in future classes?" The Professor sounded a bit disappointed, and to hear disappointment in a _teacher's _voice struck at Hermione's heart like a poisoned dagger.

"Oh, goodness, no! I just wanted to write down as many points of comparison as possible before I started. I thought that would make it quicker in the long run, since the eventual Transfiguration would be easier..." she explained, anxiously.

"I might have commended you for that preparation, if you'd actually done it, but I cannot help but note that your parchment is blank," McGonagall noted, her lips pursed. Hermione looked down at the parchment, which had been covered in calculations of atomic weights only a moment ago. It _was_ blank. She flipped back to the other parchments she'd used for comparison and her initial Transfiguration notes, and they, too, were blank. She didn't understand. Had she mistaken a regular quill for the Self-Inking one she'd bought? But no, she'd _seen_ the writing on the pages, obviously. In her concentration, had she _imagined_ writing all those notes? That seemed very unlikely, and besides, she took parchment from her bag one scroll at a time only as needed, thus there wouldn't be several out now if she'd never really written at all.

A sudden noise distracted her from her panic, and she looked to her right to see that Terry Boot had knocked over his bag. When he bent down to right it, he looked up at Hermione and mouthed silently, _dragon bait_. She stared at him for a moment, then looked at her quill, frowning darkly.

"I think my self-inking quill...or maybe the parchment...may have been jinxed," Hermione said, in a tone sufficiently grim for one discussing a horrific murder. Professor McGonagall looked unimpressed.

"Traditionally students wait until _after_ their first homework is due to trot out that old gem," she said dryly. "I suspect this establishes a new record." Hermione gaped at her in horror, and several students - all Slytherins - snickered, earning them a stern glance from McGonagall. She didn't _believe_ her! Not only had she lost all her notes and not even tried to Transfigure anything, the Professor thought she was just making _excuses_. Her mind began to cast frantically around for some argument that would convince the Professor - the Twins were in her House, surely she'd know of their proclivities - but Hermione feared everything she could say would only sound like another excuse. Suddenly she realized there was only one way she might _prove_ she'd actually been paying attention and doing the work, despite all evidence to the contrary.

Hermione pulled her wand from her bag, and before the Professor could say anything, touched it to her matchstick, focused desperately on all of the comparisons she'd done, and said, _"Mutato!"_ Within seconds, the matchstick had become thinner, silver, and pointed.

"Stop!" said the Professor, her eyes widening in mild alarm. Hermione wanted to keep going, it just needed to have the eye added, surely only a couple more seconds would-

_...follow any instructions I give in my class __**immediately**__..._

Hermione's mental justifications cut off sharply as she remembered the Professor's rules. Her fingers sprang open as if her wand had become red-hot, and it clattered onto her desk, the not-quite-a-needle remaining incomplete. For a moment, the room was quiet, students cautiously standing and or craning their necks to see what Hermione had done to produce such a reaction, Hermione looking up at Professor McGonagall with worry that she'd made a mistake somehow, and the Professor looking back at her with an unreadable expression. McGonagall shook her head gently and cleared her throat.

"My apologies, Miss Granger," she said, sincerely. "See me after class and I shall examine your supplies for tampering." She gave Hermione a soft smile, then collected her quasi-needle and the rest of the students' matchsticks.

After the class was dismissed, a handful of students immediately surrounded Hermione, asking how she'd managed her Transfiguration. After several patient assurances that she'd explain later, she managed to extricate herself and approach the Professor's desk.

"Let me see your parchment first, Miss Granger," McGonagall asked. "Most commercially-enchanted items - Self-Inking Quills included - are strongly charmed against tampering." Hermione handed the curls of parchment to McGonagall, who began waving her wand over them. On a sudden suspicion, Hermione also searched in her bag for the notes she'd taken in her earlier classes, and found they were blank as well. She closed her eyes, trying to hold back the tears of frustration she felt coming.

Laughing at her, calling her names, messing with her clothes, sticking nasty notes in her locker - she'd regularly endured all of them before coming to Hogwarts. And they'd made her feel small and weak, partly in the natural way, but also because she _knew_ they were _intended _to do that, and that if she'd only been...better, somehow, they wouldn't have been able to. But interfering with her _studies_? That was a new low, it was just...just… Hermione couldn't think of a word - at least, not in the subset of appropriate words she _allowed_ herself to think - that was sufficiently bad to describe it.

"There are lingering traces, but nothing amiss here," McGonagall said. "I'll have to examine the quill after all." Hermione took her parchment back and handed the quill over, wordlessly. "There was something else I wanted to discuss," she continued, as she began examining the quill. "Could you explain the mental images you used when Transfiguring the matchstick?" She sounded casual, and it appeared most of her attention was on the quill, but there was a note in her voice that suggested more than idle curiosity.

Hermione pushed her feelings down for the moment and explained everything she'd thought of. She did not define the scientific concepts involved, assuming that McGonagall _had_ to be familiar with such things already, teaching Transfiguration as she did. But during the entire part where Hermione was describing alloys and lignin and atomic mass ratios, she could not miss the Professor's slight frown. McGonagall put the quill down and looked up at Hermione, folding her hands on her desk.

"Did you practice Transfiguration at all before today?" she asked, calmly. Hermione shook her head.

"No, I obviously couldn't do anything at home because of the law, and I only practised some basic Charms on the train - the book was quite clear about how dangerous Transfiguration can be, though it wasn't quite as _forceful_ as your speech…" The Professor nodded, as if she'd expected this answer.

"No child with no practice whatsoever - indeed no first-year in _general_, in point of fact - should have been able to perform that Transfiguration so quickly. I must assume, then, that your advantage lies in the muggle 'sciences', of which I understand very little." She paused for a moment, choosing her words, and Hermione shifted uncomfortably. She wasn't used to teachers who admitted ignorance of any kind, and while the words had seemingly been complimentary, they hadn't _sounded_ like praise.

"I am hesitant to forbid you a talent based on obvious _study_...you presumably _earned_ what...knowledge...the muggles have given you. However, I must warn you - the student in the example I gave, Moira Leigh-Smith? She seemed to have a natural talent for Transfiguration, and was highly praised by...the Professor at the time," she said, a bit awkwardly.

"He had a soft spot for muggles, you see, and she was a muggle-born as well - I believe her mother was a 'doctor', as your parents are?" Hermione nodded, and didn't bother to correct the minor detail, too curious to know where the Professor was going with this. "I'd simply ask that before you attempt any Transfiguration involving muggle science, you consult with me first. Not that I am suggesting you are _irresponsible_...just that...I would be remiss if I did not consider the parallel."

Hermione nodded, slowly. She might have resented the unique restriction, except that she'd just had an inkling of what might have happened to Moira and her boyfriend, in light of which McGonagall's caution seemed entirely justified. She really ought to have thought of it immediately, maybe she even _had_ on some level but had discarded it, because it was brilliant and yet very stupid - though that depended partially on how long ago it had happened, exactly - and all for what..._glowing earrings_? Not that watch dials were a particularly more worthy goal...

"I will, of course. Although if you don't understand muggle science, I'm not sure how...er...consulting with you will help? If it's any consolation, I think I might understand that student's mistake…" The Professor frowned, and Hermione began to worry that McGonagall might've taken her question as an insult. But after a moment, she nodded.

"I pride myself on my knowledge of Transfiguration, and if muggle science can have such significant effects on it, it behoves me to correct that obvious deficiency. My impressions of you suggest that you will have such notions frequently, and it would be safer if they were _not _discussed in front of the class. Accordingly, we can arrange special tutoring sessions in the evenings or on weekends when you can discuss your ideas with me...while at the same time, you can do your best to teach me muggle science." Hermione nodded along until the Professor reached the last part.

"I...um. I _did_ bring some of my books from home, which will help...but that might take...quite a while," Hermione hedged.

"We do have seven years...I suppose we shall just have to be patient with each other. The Hat _did_ offer me Ravenclaw, if it's any consolation," she added, wryly, echoing Hermione's own words.

"Now that's settled, back to the matter of your notes. I believe this quill-" she nodded at the quill on her desk, "is not one you had originally purchased. It _is_ a Self-Inking Quill, but the ink it produces is Disillusioning Ink, a change that could likely be produced only during the original charming of the item." Hermione's heart fell. She'd been so distracted by the other conversation, she'd actually forgotten about her notes for a couple minutes. "Presumably it was switched for your original quill at some point - do you have any idea who might've done so?"

She had a very _good_ idea, but she hesitated to immediately name the Weasley Twins. For one, informing on students in her old school had for some reason _never_ resulted in a punishment to the offender as unpleasant as the offence itself, and had frequently led to even greater taunts later. Things _might_ be different here, but there was also the other matter - she had no _proof_ it was them. Hermione reminded herself to add 'forensic spells' to her list of things to look into.

"In any case, as _wholly inappropriate _as it was, I do not think it was meant maliciously," continued McGonagall after Hermione had remained silent for a moment. "Disillusionment is easily reversed - which I will do for you now - but this particular ink could only have remained hidden for a day at the most, and would have reverted naturally of its own accord." Hermione felt a ridiculous surge of relief that she hadn't lost all her notes. Of course, she'd _written_ them, so she remembered nearly every word anyway, but it would've taken a _long_ time to re-copy them, which could now be spent more productively. For a moment, she felt a strange sort of gratitude, until she remembered whoever'd done this _had_ deliberately made her feel awful in the first place, and got a bit conflicted.

"Thank you, Professor." she said, opting to focus her gratitude on Professor McGonagall, who genuinely deserved it. "For fixing the Disillusionment, but also for...apologizing," Hermione added. The Professor smiled ruefully.

"You are welcome. But if I did _not_ set an example for my students of both honesty and graciousness, I would be hard-pressed to consider myself an educator of any worth." Hermione beamed at her, and noted to herself that there were apparently a few things that made Hogwarts special that had nothing at all to do with magic.

o-o-o

Transfiguration had been Hermione's last class for the day. This meant she was free until dinner, so she took the opportunity to finally visit the library. If she was honest with herself, it was actually a bit…disappointing. After the rest of Hogwarts, she'd _expected _it to be amazing, wonderful, and awe-inspiring. Instead, it was cramped, disorganized and downright inhospitable.

To be fair, based on her rough estimates (and Hogwarts, a History), it _did_ have tens of thousands of books - obviously mostly about _magic_, which had to count for something. But Hermione had frequently visited the London Library, which held over a _million_ books, and while she had not yet qualified for a Reader Pass at the British Library, she knew that it stored 150 times as many items in turn. She supposed that the magical population was so low that they simply didn't publish all that many books each year.

But Hermione reminded herself that the value of a library was not in its size, but in what it could _teach_ you. There was no point in complaining about it until she ran out of things to learn, which she suspected would take quite a while. Particularly given the labyrinthine collection of bookshelves, scattered throughout an assortment of randomly-sized rooms on the third floor, with no hint of even an old-style card catalogue. She hoped that the librarian could help her, though she'd heard vague reports from other Ravenclaws that she was rather...intense.

"Excuse me, Madam Pince?", she asked quietly, once she found the thin woman's desk. "I was wondering if you-" The librarian shushed her noisily. The noise was actually louder than Hermione's question had been, but she dutifully lowered her voice to a barely-audible whisper. She made it a rule to humour librarians, though she'd never _actually _met one who fit the stereotypes quite so well before today. "Sorry. I was wondering if you could help me research a few-"

"I don't have time to help students with homework, nor should you expect such help," she interrupted, sternly.

"Oh, well it's not actually for classes, it's just a few-"

"I _certainly_ do not have time to help with personal projects." Interrupting seemed to be the woman's natural mode of conversation.

"Oh. Well, I'm muggle-born...what is it that librarians-"

"Librarians are guardians of the library, and the books within, of course. I ensure that these rooms maintain a suitable atmosphere for serious study and research, that no harm comes to the volumes, and that they are only borrowed - _and returned_ - by _responsible_ students."

"So if a student needed to _find_ a particular-"

"She would consult a professor, or other students, and not take up the librarian's _valuable time_." Hermione gave up at this point, and took Madam Pince's 'advice', seeking out an older Ravenclaw.

"You got a lot further with her than most people do," said a third-year, Roger Davies, after Hermione had - quietly - explained her difficulties to him. "She must like you." Hermione took a moment to digest this.

"So, how _do_ you find particular books around here?" she asked.

"Well, the bookshelves are grouped into Sections of course, but beyond that it's a matter of practice, memory, and diligence. Madam Pince _does_ go to considerable lengths to ensure the books are always replaced in the _exact_ location they came from, so at least you can rely on that. Though if there's some pattern to it, she's never told anyone, and no one's ever figured one out." Hermione sighed. She went over her list with Roger, and he was at least able to point her towards the right Sections for most of them.

She'd started with house-elves, as though it was perhaps of the least practical value, it was ethically the most _important_ question she'd come up with so far, ahead of both what was being done to children sorted into Slytherin and her concerns about the pre-Hogwarts education of magical families. But in the back of her mind, she couldn't help continuing to think about other things that demanded understanding.

As the hour for dinner approached, she found herself frequently distracted by other students' talking in the library, and was starting to commiserate with Madam Pince's increasingly strident attempts to quash such disruptions. Finally, the librarian was apparently pushed past her limits, and closed the library entirely, herding everyone out with exhortations not to come back until they could maintain proper decorum. Hermione, vexed, approached one of the knots of students left gossiping outside the doors to the library.

"You know, some people actually _wanted_ to use the library for studying," she began, crossly.

"How can you think about studying _now_?" asked a second-year girl she didn't know.

"Why...what's going on?"

"It's Madam Pomfrey," said the girl, breathlessly. "She's dead!"

o-o-o-o-o

A/N: Whew! Once again, sorry it took so long to get this update up, but I had a lot of background to work out, including a canon-respecting but actually sensible class schedule and nailing down (for this fic, anyway) some open questions about how magic works. Plus, some lazing about. But mostly the schedule, which I am unreasonably proud of.

However, procrastination pays off in some ways, as just as I was about to post this, I noticed a PM from LovingPillow, who figured out the door riddle! Congratulations! As it happens, the way I ended up writing the next chapter, I couldn't work the answer smoothly into the story, so it'll be left unsaid for future readers to puzzle over. I'll continue shout-outs to other readers who PM me the correct answer, but please don't pester previous winners for hints!

On the upside, things are starting to heat up plot-wise (in addition, of course, to the canon plot that's still going on). Hopefully none of my readers are _too_ fond of Madam Pomfrey. I occasionally write some hidden scenes that won't necessarily ever be published, just to keep things straight in my head, and what happened to Poppy hit me with some feels. I also hope it isn't _too_ obvious what happened there (it's hard for me to tell, since obviously, I know already), but rest assured, even if you're a smarty-pants and have figured that out, there will be more twists to come.


End file.
